3   1822  01387  8780 
liPiliiiili 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 


Mrs.   Walter  Fuelscher 


3  1822  01387  8780 


fc"  3 


°i 

Jo 


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JL^A^. 


T 


BY   MYRTLE    REED 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 

LATER  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 

THE  SPINSTER  BOOK 

LAVENDER  AND   OLD  LACE 

PICKABACK  SONGS 

THE  SHADOW  OF   VICTORY 

THE  MASTER'S  VIOLIN 

THE  BOOK  OF  CLEVER  BEASTS 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  JACK-O'-LANTERN 

A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN 

LOVE  AFFAIRS  OF  LITERARY  MEN 

FLOWER  OF  THE  DUSK 

OLD  ROSE  AND  SILVER 

SONNETS  TO  A  LOVER 

MASTER  OF  THE  VINEYARD 


MASTER  Or  THE 
VINEYARD 

BY  MYRTLE  REED 

* 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  and  London 
Ube  Iknf  cfeerbocfeer  press 
1910 

COPYRIGHT,   1910 

BY 

MYRTLE  REED  McCULLOUOH 


fmfcfeerboclier  frees,  flew  Borft 


Ill 


do 

ALL  WHO  HAVE  LOVED  IN  VAIN 


2>eMcation 


Contents 


CHAPTER 


I — THE  HILL  OF  THE  MUSES        .        .        i 

II — BROWN  ALPACA    .        .        .        .14 

III — THE  CRYSTAL  BALL       ...      29 

IV — APRIL'S  SUN 45 

V — THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  BROKEN  HEART      61 

VI — MORE  STATELY  MANSIONS      .        .      76 

VII — A  LETTER  AND  A  GUEST         .        .      91 

VIII — "WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED"         .     106 

IX — A  SPRING  DAY       .        .        .        .122 

X — A  LITTLE  BROWN  MOUSE       .        .137 

XI — THE  HOUR  OF  THE  TURNING  NIGHT     154 


XII — ASKING — NOT  ANSWER  . 
XIII — THE  STAIN  OF  THE  ROSE 
XIV — THE  LIGHT  BEFORE  A  SHRINE 

XV — THE  INLAID  Box    . 
XVI — ONE  LITTLE  HOUR 


170 
185 
200 
215 
230 


Contents 


VI 


Contents 


CHAPTER 


Contents         XVII — THE  LAST  TRYST  .  .  .245 

XVIII — STARBREAK         ....  260 

XIX — IF  LOVE  WERE  ALL     .        .        .  273 

XX — "THE  LADY  TRAVELLER"    .        .  288 

XXI — THE  WEAVING  OF  THE  TAPESTRY  302 
XXII — EACH  TO  His  OWN  WORK  .        .315 

XXIII — BETROTHAL        ....  330 

XXIV — THE  MINISTER'S  CALL  .        .        .  345 

XXV — A  WEDDING        ....  359 


nDaster  of  tbc 


I 
Ibill  of  tbe 


THE  girl  paused  among  the  birches  and  from  tbe 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  It  was 
good  to  be  outdoors  after  the  countless  an 
noyances  of  the  day;  to  feel  the  earth  springing 
beneath  her  step,  the  keen,  crisp  air  bringing 
the  colour  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  silence  of  the 
woods  ministering  to  her  soul. 

From  the  top  of  the  hill  she  surveyed  her  little 
world.  Where  the  small  white  houses  clus 
tered  in  the  valley,  far  below  her,  she  had 
spent  her  five-and-twenty  years,  shut  in  by  the 
hills,  and,  more  surely,  by  the  iron  bars  of 
circumstance.  To  her  the  heights  had  always 
meant  escape,  for  in  the  upper  air  and  in 
solitude  she  found  detachment  —  a  sort  of 
heavenly  perspective  upon  the  affairs  of  the 
common  day. 

Down  in  the  bare,  brown  valley  the  river  lay 
asleep.  Grey  patches  of  melting  snow  still 
filled  the  crevices  along  its  banks,  and  frag 
ments  of  broken  crystal  moved  slowly  toward 
the  ultimate  sea.  The  late  afternoon  sun 


/ffimster  of  tbe 


touched  the  sharp  edges,  here  and  there  to  a 
faint  iridescence.  "The  river-god  dreams  of 
rainbows,"  thought  Rosemary,  with  a  smile. 

Only  one  house  was  near  the  river;  the 
others  were  set  farther  back.  The  one  upon 
the  shore  was  the  oldest  and  largest  house  in 
the  valley,  severely  simple  in  line  and  with  a 
certain  air  of  stateliness.  The  broad,  Colonial 
porch  looked  out  upon  the  river  and  the  hills 
beyond  it,  while  all  around,  upon  the  southern 
slope  between  the  opposite  hills  and  the  valley, 
were  the  great  vineyards  of  the  Marshs',  that 
had  descended  from  father  to  son  during  the 
century  that  had  elapsed  since  the  house 
was  built. 

The  gnarled  and  twisted  vines  scarcely 
showed  now,  upon  the  grey-brown  back 
ground  of  the  soil,  but  in  a  few  places,  where 
the  snow  had  not  yet  melted,  the  tangled 
black  threads  were  visible.  Like  the  frame 
surrounding  a  tapestry,  great  pines  bordered 
the  vineyard  save  on  the  side  nearest  the  valley, 
for  the  first  of  the  Marshs,  who  had  planted 
the  vineyard  and  built  the  house,  had  taken 
care  to  protect  his  vines  from  the  north-east 
storms. 

The  clanging  notes  of  a  bell,  mellowed  by 
distance,  came  faintly  from  the  valley  below. 
Rosemary  took  out  the  thin,  old  watch  that  had 
been  her  mother's  and  her  mother's  mother's 
before  her,  and  set  the  hands  at  four  upon  the 


ZTbe  Dill  of  tbe 


pale  gold  dial.  Then  she  drew  up  the  worn  gold 
chain  that  hung  around  her  neck,  under  her 
gown,  and,  with  the  key  that  dangled  from  it, 
wound  the  watch.  In  an  hour  or  so,  probably, 
it  would  stop,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  the 
cheerful  little  tick  while  she  waited. 

The  doors  of  the  white  schoolhouse  in  the 
valley  burst  open  and  the  tide  of  exuberant 
youth  rushed  forth.  Like  so  many  ants,  the 
children  swarmed  and  scattered,  their  shrill 
voices  sounding  afar.  Rosemary  went  to  a 
hollow  tree,  took  out  a  small  wooden  box, 
opened  it,  and  unwound  carefully  a  wide 
ribbon  of  flaming  scarlet,  a  yard  or  more  in 
length.  Digging  her  heels  into  the  soft  earth, 
she  went  down  to  the  lowest  of  the  group  of 
birches,  on  the  side  of  the  hill  that  overlooked 
the  valley,  and  tied  the  ribbon  to  a  drooping 
bough.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  where  a  huge  log,  rolled  against  two  trees, 
made  a  comfortable  seat  for  two  people. 

Five  minutes  of  the  allotted  twenty  had 
passed  since  Rosemary  had  set  her  watch.  At 
twenty  minutes  past  four,  or,  at  the  most, 
twenty-five,  he  would  come.  For  three  years 
and  more  he  had  never  failed  to  answer  the 
signal,  nor,  indeed,  to  look  for  it  when  he 
brushed  the  chalk  from  his  clothes  and  locked 
the  door  of  the  schoolhouse  behind  him. 

A  kindly  wind,  in  passing,  took  the  ribbon 
and  made  merry  with  it.  In  and  out  among 


/Caster  of  tbe  ti)ine£arfc 


Ifiomanccl 


the  bare   boughs  of  the  birches  it  fluttered 

...  ...  .  . 

like  a  living  thing,  and  Rosemary  laughed 
aloud,  as  she  had  not  done  for  many  days. 
The  hill,  the  scarlet  signal,  and  the  man  who 
was  coming  symbolised,  to  her,  the  mysterious 
world  of  Romance. 

Sometimes  the  birches  were  shy  dryads, 
fleeing  before  the  wrath  of  some  unknown  god. 
At  other  times,  they  were  the  Muses,  for, 
as  it  happened,  there  were  nine  in  the  group 
and  no  others  upon  the  hill.  The  vineyard 
across  the  valley  was  a  tapestry,  where,  from 
earliest  Spring  until  the  grapes  were  gathered 
colour  and  light  were  caught  and  imprisoned 
within  the  web.  At  the  bend  in  the  river, 
where  the  rushes  grew  thickly,  the  river-god 
kept  his  harp,  which  answered  with  shy, 
musical  murmurings  to  every  vagrant  wind. 

Again,  the  hill  was  a  tower,  and  she  a  captive 
princess,  who  had  refused  to  marry  except 
for  love,  and  Love  tarried  strangely  upon  the 
way.  Or,  sometimes,  she  was  the  Elaine  of  an 
unknown  Launcelot,  safely  guarding  his  shield. 
She  placed  in  the  woods  all  the  dear  people  of 
the  books,  held  forever  between  the  covers  and 
bound  to  the  printed  page,  wondering  if  they, 
too,  did  not  long  for  freedom. 

The  path  up  the  hill  wound  in  and  out  among 
the  trees,  and  so  it  happened  that  Rosemary 
heard  muffled  footsteps  before  she  saw  him 
coming.  A  wayfaring  squirrel,  the  first  of  his 


Ube  1bW  ot  tbe  /Buses 


family  to  venture  out,  scampered  madly  up    ixcom«« 
a  tree  and  looked  down  upon  the  girl  with 
questioning,  fearful  eyes.     She  rose  from  the 
log  and  looked  up,  with  her  hands  outstretched 
in  unconscious  pleading. 

"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "don't  be  afraid  of 
me!" 

"I'm  not,"  answered  a  man's  voice.  "I 
assure  you  I  'm  not." 

"I  wasn't  speaking  to  you,"  she  laughed, 
as  she  went  to  meet  him. 

"No?"  he  queried,  flushed  and  breathless 
from  the  climb.  "  I  wonder  if  there  is  anyone 
else  for  whom  you  wave  red  ribbons  from  your 
fortress!" 

"Take  it  down,  will  you  please?" 

"Wait  until  I  get  three  full  breaths — then  I 
will." 

She  went  back  to  the  log  while  he  awkwardly 
untied  the  ribbon,  rolled  it  up,  in  clumsy 
masculine  fashion,  and  restored  it  to  the 
wooden  box  in  the  hollow  tree.  "Are  n't 
you  cold?"  he  asked,  as  he  sat  down  beside 
her. 

"No — I  'm  too  vividly  alive  to  be  cold,  ever." 

"But  what's  the  use  of  being  alive  unless 
you  can  live  ?  "  he  inquired,  discontentedly. 

She  sighed  and  turned  her  face  away.  The 
colour  vanished  from  her  cheeks/ the  youth 
from  her  figure.  Pensively,  she  gazed  across 
the  valley  to  the  vineyard,  where  the  black, 


flDaster  ot  tbe  IDineparb 


knotted  vines  were  blurred  against  the  soil  in 
the  fast-gathering  twilight.  His  eyes  followed 
hers. 

"I  hate  them,"  he  said,  passionately.  "I 
wish  I  'd  never  seen  a  grape!" 

"Were  the  children  bad  to-day?"  she  asked, 
irrelevantly. 

"Of  course.  Aren't  they  always  bad? 
What 's  the  use  of  caging  up  fifty  little  imps 
and  making  'em  learn  the  multiplication 
table  when  they  don't  even  aspire  to  the  alpha 
bet  ?  Why  should  I  have  to  teach  'em  to  read 
and  write  when  they  're  determined  not  to 
learn?  Why  do  I  have  to  grow  grapes  when  it 
would  be  the  greatest  joy  of  my  life  to  know 
that  I  'd  never  have  to  see,  touch,  taste,  or  even 
smell  another  grape  in  this  world  or  the  next?" 

She  turned  toward  him.  A  late  Winter 
sunset  shimmered  in  the  west  like  some  pale, 
transparent  cloth  of  gold  hung  from  the  walls 
of  heaven,  but  the  kindly  light  lent  no  beauty 
to  her  face.  Rosemary's  eyes  were  grey  and 
lustreless,  her  hair  ashen,  and  almost  without 
colour.  Her  features  were  irregular  and  her 
skin  dull  and  lifeless.  She  had  not  even  the 
indefinable  freshness  that  is  the  divine  right  of 
youth.  Her  mouth  drooped  wistfully  at  the 
corners,  and  even  the  half-discouraged  dimple 
in  her  chirl  looked  like  a  dent  or  a  scar. 

The  bare  hands  that  lay  listlessly  in  her  lap 
were  rough  and  red  from  much  uncongenial 


Ube  1bill  ot  tbe  /iDuses 


toil.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  still 
absorbed  in  himself,  then,  as  he  noted  the 
pathos  in  every  line  of  her  face  and  figure,  the 
expression  of  his  face  subtly  changed.  His 
hand  closed  quickly  over  hers. 

"Forgive  me,  Rosemary — I  'm  a  brute.  I 
have  no  right  to  inflict  my  moods  upon  you." 

"Why  not?    Don't  I  bring  mine  to  you?" 

"Sometimes — not  often." 

"  Let 's  get  them  out  where  we  can  look 
them  over,"  she  suggested,  practically.  "What 
do  you  hate  most?" 

"Grapes,"  he  replied,  readily,  "and  then 
children  who  are  n't  interested  in  the  alphabet. 
All  day  I  've  been  saying:  'See  the  cat.  Can 
the  cat  run?  Yes,  the  cat  can  run/  Of  course 
they  could  repeat  it  after  me,  but  they  could  n't 
connect  it  in  any  way  with  the  printed  page. 
I  sympathised  strongly  with  an  unwashed 
child  of  philosophical  German  lineage  who 
inquired,  earnestly:  'Teacher,  what 's  the  good 
ofdat?'" 

"What  else  do  you  hate?" 

"Being  tied  up.  Set  down  in  one  little 
corner  of  the  world  and  being  obliged  to  stay 
in  it.  I  know  to  a  certainty  just  what 's  going 
to  happen  to-morrow  and  next  day  and  the 
day  after  that.  Point  out  any  day  on  the 
calendar,  months  ahead,  and  I  can  tell  you 
just  what  I  '11  be  doing.  Nothing  is  uncertain 
but  the  weather." 


/Caster  ot  tbe  Wnegarfc 


t>fe *oofre       "Some  people  pray  for  anchorage,"  she  said. 

"  I  never  have,"  he  flashed  back.  "  I  want 
the  open  sea — tide  and  tempest  and  grey 
surges,  with  the  wind  in  my  face  and  the  thrill 
of  danger  in  my  heart!  I  want  my  blood  to 
race  through  my  body;  I  want  to  be  hungry, 
cold,  despairing,  afraid — everything!  God, 
how  I  want  to  live!" 

He  paced  back  and  forth  restlessly,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  Rosemary  watched 
him,  half  afraid,  though  his  mood  was  far 
from  strange  to  her.  He  was  taller  than  the 
average  man,  clean-shaven,  and  superbly  built, 
with  every  muscle  ready  and  even  eager  for 
use.  His  thirty  years  sat  lightly  upon  him, 
though  his  dark  hair  was  already  slightly  grey 
at  the  temples,  for  his  great  brown  eyes  were 
boyish  and  always  would  be.  In  the  half- 
light,  his  clean-cut  profile  was  outlined  against 
the  sky,  and  his  mouth  trembled  perceptibly. 
He  had  neither  the  thin,  colourless  lips  that 
would  have  made  men  distrust  him,  nor  the 
thick  lips  that  would  have  warned  women  to 
go  slowly  with  him  and  to  watch  every  step. 

With  obvious  effort,  he  shook  himself  par 
tially  free  of  his  mood.  "What  do  you  hate?" 
he  asked,  gently. 

"Brown  alpaca,  sassafras  tea,  the  eternal 
dishes,  the  scrubbing,  the  endless  looking  for 
dust  where  dust  would  never  dare  to  stay, 
and — "  She  paused,  and  bit  her  lips. 


Ube  1biU  of  tbe  flDuses 


"Might  as  well  go  on,"  he  urged,  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  can't.     It  is  n't  nice  of  me." 

"But  it's  true.  I  don't  know  why  you 
should  n't  hate  your  Grandmother  and  your 
Aunt  Matilda.  I  do.  It 's  better  to  be  truth 
ful  than  nice." 

"Is  it?" 

"Sincerity  always  has  a  charm  of  its  own. 
Even  when  two  men  are  fighting,  you  are 
compelled  to  admire  their  earnestness  and 
singleness  of  purpose." 

"  I  wish  you  lived  where  you  could  admire 
Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda.  They  're 
always  fighting." 

"No  doubt.  Isn't  it  a  little  early  for 
sassafras  tea?" 

"  I  thought  so,  but  Grandmother  said  Spring 
was  coming  early  this  year.  She  feels  it  in  her 
bones  and  she  intends  to  be  ready  for  it." 

"She  should  know  the  signs  of  the  seasons, 
if  anyone  does.  How  old  is  she  now  ?  " 

"Something  past  eighty." 

"  Suffering  Moses !  Eighty  Springs  and  Sum 
mers  and  Autumns!  Let  me  see — I  was 
only  twenty  when  I  began  with  the  grapes. 
If  I  live  to  be  eighty,  that  means  I  've  got  to  go 
to  town  sixty  times  to  buy  baskets,  sell  the 
crop,  and  hire  help — go  through  the  whole 
process  from  Spring  to  frost  sixty  times,  and 
I  've  only  done  it  ten  times.  Fifty  more! 


IO 


/Caster  ot  tbe 


Slaves  of 
tbe 


And  when  the  imps  who  unwillingly  learned 
their  multiplication  table  from  me  are  grand 
parents  on  their  own  account,  I  '11  still  be 
saying:  'See  the  cat!  Can  the  cat  run?  Yes, 
the  cat  can  run.' ' 

"Why  don't  you  sell  the  vineyard?"  she 
asked,  though  her  heart  sank  at  the  mere 
suggestion. 

"Sell  it?  Why  didn't  the  Ancient  Mariner 
sell  his  albatross  and  take  a  nice  little  trip 
around  the  world  on  the  proceeds?  Mother 
would  die  of  a  broken  heart  if  1  mentioned  it  to 
her.  The  Marsh  family  have  been  the  slaves 
of  that  vineyard  since  the  first  mistaken  ances 
tor  went  into  the  grape  business.  We  've 
fertilised  it,  pruned  it,  protected  it,  tied  it  up, 
sat  up  nights  with  it,  fanned  the  insects  away 
from  it,  hired  people  to  pick  the  fruit  and  pack 
it,  fed  the  people,  entertained  them,  sent 
presents  to  their  wives  and  children — we  've 
done  everything!  And  what  have  we  had  for 
it?  Only  a  very  moderate  living,  all  the 
grapes  we  could  eat,  and  a  few  bottles  of  musty 
old  wine. 

"Mother,  of  course,  has  very  little  to  do 
with  it,  and,  to  her,  it  has  come  to  represent 
some  sort  of  entailed  possession  that  becomes 
more  sacred  every  year.  It 's  a  family  heir 
loom,  like  a  title,  or  some  very  old  and  valuable 
piece  of  jewelry.  Other  people  have  family 
plate  and  family  traditions,  but  we  've  got 


TTbe  1bill  of  tbe  /Buses 


a  vineyard,  or,  to  speak  more  truthfully,  it 
has  us." 

"Look  at  the  Muses,"  said  Rosemary,  after 
a  silence.  "Do  you  think  they've  gone  to 
sleep?" 

The  nine  slender  birches,  that  had  apparently 
paused  in  their  flight  down  the  hillside,  were, 
indeed,  very  still.  Not  a  twig  stirred,  and 
the  white  trunks  were  ghostly  in  the  twilight. 
Seemingly  they  leaned  toward  each  other  for 
protection  and  support;  for  comfort  in  the 
loneliness  of  the  night. 

"Happy  Muses,"  he  responded.  "No  vine 
yard  to  look  after  and  no  school  to  teach." 

"And  no  Grandmother,"  continued  Rose 
mary,  "and  no  Aunt.  Nor  any  dishes  or 
brooms  or  scrubbing-brushes,  or  stoves  that 
are  possessed  by  evil  spirits." 

Star-like,  a  single  light  appeared  in  the 
front  window  of  the  big  white  house  on  the 
shore  of  the  river.  It  was  answered  almost 
immediately  by  another,  far  across  the  stream. 

"I  like  to  watch  the  lights,"  the  girl  went 
on.  "The  first  one  is  always  in  your  house." 

"  Yes,  I  know.    Mother  dislikes  twilight." 

"Ours  is  the  last — on  account  of  the  price 
of  oil." 

"Here,"  he  said.  "I  almost  forgot  your 
book.  And  I  brought  you  two  candles  this 
time.  You  must  n't  read  by  the  light  of  one— 
you  '11  spoil  your  eyes." 


12 


/Caster  ot  tbe  lDine\?arC> 


"Oh,  Mr.  Marsh!    Thank  you  so  much!" 

"  You  're  very  welcome,  Miss  Starr." 

"Please  don't.  I  like  to  have  you  call  me 
Rosemary." 

"Then  you  must  call  me  Alden.  I  've 
been  telling  you  that  for  almost  two  years." 

"I  know,  but  I  can't  make  myself  say  it, 
somehow.  You  're  so  much  older  and  wiser 
than  I." 

"Don't  be  vain  of  your  youth.  I  'm  only 
five  years  ahead  of  you,  and,  as  for  wisdom, 
anybody  could  teach  a  country  school  in 
Winter  and  grow  grapes  the  rest  of  the  time." 

"I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Come,  it  's 
getting  late." 

They  went  down  the  hill  together,  hand  in 
hand  like  two  children.  The  young  man's 
mood  had  changed  for  the  better  and  he  was 
whistling  cheerfully.  They  stopped  at  the 
corner  where  she  must  turn  to  go  home. 

"Good-night,"  she  said. 

"Good-night,  Rosemary.  I  wish  I  could 
come  to  see  you  sometimes." 

"Sodo  I,  but  it 's  better  that  you  should  n't." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  come  over  in  the 
evenings  occasionally.  I  always  read  to  Mother 
and  you  might  as  well  listen,  too.  I  'd  gladly 
take  you  home." 

"It  would  be  lovely,"  she  sighed,  "but 
I  can't." 

"You  know  best,"  he  answered,  shivering. 


1MU  of  tbe 


"It's   pretty    cold    up    there    most    of    the 
time." 

"The  heights  are  always  cold,  are  n't  they?" 
"Yes,  and  they're  supposed  to  be  lonely, 
too.     Good-night  again.     Let   me   know  how 
you  like  the  book." 

Woman-like,  she  watched  him  as  he  went 
down  the  street.  She  liked  the  way  his  head 
was  set  upon  his  broad  shoulders;  she  admired 
his  long,  swinging  stride.  When  his  figure  was 
lost  in  the  gathering  darkness  she  turned, 
regretfully,  and  went  home. 


II 

Brown  alpaca 

A  T  seven  o'clock,  precisely,  Grandmother 
f\  Starr  limped  into  the  dining-room.  It 
was  one  of  her  "lame"  days,  though  sometimes 
she  forgot  which  was  her  lame  side,  and  limped 
irregularly  and  impartially  with  either  foot, 
as  chanced  to  please  her  erratic  fancy. 

A  small  lamp  cast  a  feeble,  unshaded  light 
from  the  middle  of  the  table,  for  the  morning 
was  dark,  and  the  room  smelled  abominably 
of  oil.  The  flickering  rays  picked  out  here 
and  there  a  bit  of  tarnished  gold  from  the  wall 
paper,  and,  as  though  purposely,  made  the 
worn  spots  in  the  carpet  unusually  distinct. 
Meaningless  china  ornaments  crowded  the 
mantel,  but  there  was  no  saving  grace  of 
firelight  in  the  small  black  cavern  beneath. 
A  little  stove,  in  one  corner  of  the  room, 
smoked  industriously  and  refused  to  give 
out  any  heat. 

"Rosemary,"  said  Grandmother  Starr,  fret 
fully,  "  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  never  learn  to 
build  a  fire.  Get  me  my  shoulder  shawl." 


3Brown  Blpaca 


The  girl  compressed  her  pale  lips  into  a  thin, 
tight  line.  She  was  tired  and  her  head  ached, 
but  she  said  nothing.  She  found  the  shawl,  of 
red-and-black  plaid,  and  spread  it  over  the 
old  lady's  shoulders. 

"  I  did  n't  say  for  you  to  put  it  on,"  remarked 
Grandmother,  sourly.  "  If  I  'd  wanted  you  to 
put  it  on  me,  I  'd  have  said  so.  Guess  I 
ain't  so  old  yet  but  what  I  can  put  on  my  own 
shawl.  What  I  want  it  for  is  to  wrap  up  my 
hands  in." 

"Where's  my  shawl?"  demanded  Aunt 
Matilda,  entering  the  room  at  that  moment. 

Rosemary  found  the  other  shawl,  of  blue- 
and-brown  plaid,  and  silently  offered  it  to  the 
owner. 

Aunt  Matilda  inclined  her  grey  head  toward 
Rosemary.  "  You  can  put  it  on  me  if  you  like. 
I  ain't  ashamed  to  say  I  'm  cold  when  I  am, 
and  if  I  wanted  to  wrap  up  my  hands,  I  'd 
get  my  mittens — I  would  n't  take  a  whole 
shawl." 

"You  ain't  got  no  reason  to  be  cold,  as  I 
see,"  remarked  Grandmother,  sharply.  "  Folks 
what  lays  abed  till  almost  seven  o'clock  ought 
to  be  nice  and  warm  unless  they  're  lazy. 
P'r'aps  if  you  moved  around  more,  your  blood 
would  warm  you." 

"  Better  try  it,"  Matilda  suggested,  pointedly. 

An  angry  flush  mounted  to  Grandmother's 
temples,  where  the  thin  white  hair  was  drawn 


i6 


flDaster  of  tbe  Wnegarfc 


"beas  of 
tbc  fjouae 


back  so  tightly  that  it  must  have  hurt.  "  I  've 
moved  around  some  in  my  day,"  she  responded, 
shrilly,  "but  I  never  got  any  thanks  for  it. 
What  with  sweepin'  and  dustin'  and  scrubbin' 
and  washin'  and  ironin'  and  bringin'  up  children 
and  feedin'  pigs  and  cows  and  chickens  and 
churnin'  and  waitin'  on  your  father,  it 's  no 
wonder  I  'm  a  helpless  cripple  with  the  misery 
in  my  back." 

"Dried  peaches  again,"  Matilda  observed, 
scornfully,  as  Rosemary  put  a  small  saucer  of 
fruit  before  her.  "Who  told  you  to  get  dried 
peaches?" 

"  I  did,  if  you  want  to  know,"  Grandmother 
snorted.  "This  is  my  house,  ain't  it?" 

"I  've  heard  tell  that  it  was,"  Matilda 
answered,  "and  I  'm  beginnin'  to  believe  it." 

Miss  Matilda  was  forty-six,  but,  in  the  pitiless 
glare  of  the  odorous  lamp,  she  looked  much 
older.  Her  hair  was  grey  and  of  uneven 
length,  so  tha*t  short,  straight  hair  continually 
hung  about  her  face,  without  even  the  saving 
grace  of  fluffiness.  Her  eyes  were  steel-blue  and 
cold,  her  nose  large  and  her  mouth  large  also. 
Her  lips  drooped  at  the  corners  and  there  was 
a  wart  upon  her  chin. 

Grandmother  also  had  a  wart,  but  it  was  upon 
her  nose.  Being  a  friendly  and  capable  sort 
of  wart,  it  held  her  steel-bowed  spectacles  at  the 
proper  angle  for  reading  or  knitting.  During 
conversation,  she  peered  over  her  spectacles, 


JSrown  Hlpaca 


and  sometimes,  to  the  discomfort  of  a  sensitive 
observer,  the  steel  frame  appeared  to  divide 
her  eyes  horizontally. 

They  were  very  dark,  beady  eyes,  set  close  to 
gether.  At  times  they  gleamed  with  the  joy 
of  conflict,  but  they  always  expressed  a  certain 
malicious  cunning.  With  a  single  glance,  she 
could  make  Rosemary  feel  mentally  undressed. 
Had  the  girl's  forehead  been  transparent, 
like  the  crystal  of  a  watch,  with  the  machinery 
of  thought  and  emotion  fully  exposed  to  the 
eye  of  a  master-mechanic,  her  sensation  could 
not  have  differed  from  the  helpless  awe  her 
grandmother  so  easily  inspired. 

Of  course  the  breakfast  was  not  right — it 
never  was.  The  dried  peaches  were  too  sweet 
for  one  and  not  sweet  enough  for  the  other. 
Grandmother  wanted  her  oatmeal  cooked 
to  a  paste,  but  Aunt  Matilda,  whose  teeth 
were  better,  desired  something  that  must  be 
chewed  before  it  was  swallowed,  and  unhesi 
tatingly  said  so.  The  coffee  was  fated  to 
please  neither,  though,  as  Rosemary  found 
courage  to  say,  you  could  n't  expect  good 
coffee  on  Friday  when  the  same  grounds  had 
been  used  ever  since  Sunday  morning. 

"I  'd  like  to  know  what  makes  you  so 
high  and  mighty  all  of  a  sudden,"  said  Grand 
mother.  "Coffee  's  just  like  tea — as  long  as 
colour  comes  into  it  when  it 's  boiled,  it 's  good. 
My  mother  always  used  the  same  grounds  for 


18 


faster  of  tbe  IDinegarO 


ttbe 
Common 

Cast; 


a  week  for  a  family  of  eight,  and  she  did  n't 
hear  no  complaints,  neither.  You  ain't  boiled 
this  long  enough — that 's  what 's  the  matter." 

Aunt  Matilda  muttered  something  about 
"beggars  being  choosers,"  and  Rosemary 
pushed  her  plate  away  wearily.  She  had  not 
tasted  her  breakfast. 

Grandmother  arose  and  noisily  blew  out  the 
lamp,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  Matilda  had 
not  finished  eating.  "Now,  Rosemary,"  she 
said,  briskly,  "after  you  get  the  dishes  done 
and  the  kitchen  cleaned  up,  I  want  you  should 
go  to  the  post-office  and  get  my  paper.  When 
you  come  back,  you  can  do  the  sweepin'  and 
dustin'  down  here  and  I  can  set  in  the  kitchen 
while  you  're  doin'  it.  Then  you  can  make 
the  beds  and  do  the  upstairs  work  and  then  go 
to  the  store.  By  the  time  you  're  ready  to  go 
to  the  store,  I  '11  have  decided  what  you  're  to 
get." 

"And,"  continued  Aunt  Matilda,  pushing 
back  her  chair,  "this  afternoon  you  can  help 
me  cut  out  some  underclothes  and  get  'em 
basted  together."  She  never  attempted  any 
sort  of  housework,  being  pathetically  vain  of 
her  one  beauty — her  small,  white  hands.  Even 
the  family  sewing  she  did  under  protest. 

"Is  the  alpaca  all  gone?"  asked  Grand 
mother. 

"Yes,"  Matilda  replied.  "I  used  the  last 
of  it  patchin'  Rosemary's  dress  under  the 


OBrown  Hlpaca 


arms.  It  beats  all  how  hard  she  is  on  her 
clothes." 

"  I  '11  have  to  order  more,"  sighed  the  old 
lady.  "I  suppose  the  price  has  gone  up 
again." 

Rosemary's  breath  came  and  went  quickly; 
her  heart  fluttered  with  a  sudden  wildness. 
"Grandmother,"  she  pleaded,  hesitatingly, 
"  oh,  Aunt  Matilda — just  for  this  once,  could  n't 
I  have  grey  alpaca  instead  of  brown  ?  I  hate 
brown  so!" 

Both  women  stared  at  her  as  though  she 
had  all  at  once  gone  mad.  The  silence  became 
intense,  painful. 

"I  mean,"  faltered  the  girl,  "if  it's  the 
same  price.  I  would  n't  ask  you  to  pay  any 
more.  Perhaps  grey  might  be  cheaper  now — 
even  cheaper  than  brown!" 

"I  was  married  in  brown  alpaca,"  said 
Grandmother.  She  used  the  tone  in  which 
royalty  may  possibly  allude  to  coronation. 

"I  was  wearing  brown  alpaca,"  observed 
Aunt  Matilda,  "the  night  the  minister  came 
to  call." 

"Made  just  like  this,"  they  said,  together. 

"  If  brown  alpaca 's  good  enough  for  weddin's 
and  ministers,  I  reckon  it  '11  do  for  orphans 
that  don't  half  earn  their  keep,"  resumed 
Grandmother,  with  her  keen  eyes  fixed  upon 
Rosemary. 

"What  put  the  notion  into  your  head?" 


20 


/iDaster  of  tbe 


queried  Aunt   Matilda,   with   the  air  of  one 

Surprise          ,.         ,       .  ,     , 

athirst  for  knowledge. 

"Why  —  nothing,"  the  girl  stammered,  "ex 
cept  that  —  when  I  was  looking  at  mother's 
things  the  other  day,  up  in  the  attic,  I  found 
some  pink  ribbon,  and  I  thought  it  would  be 
pretty  with  grey,  and  if  I  had  a  grey  dress  -  " 

The  other  two  exchanged  glances.  "Ain't 
it  wonderful,"  asked  Matilda  of  her  mother, 
"how  blood  will  tell?" 

"It  certainly  is,"  responded  Grandmother, 
polishing  her  spectacles  vigorously  with  a 
corner  of  the  plaid  shawl.  "Your  ma,"  she 
went  on,  to  Rosemary,  "was  wearin'  grey  when 
your  pa  brought  her  here  to  visit  us.  They 
was  a  surprise  party  —  both  of  'em.  We 
did  n't  even  know  he  was  plannin'  marriage 
and  I  don't  believe  he  was,  either.  We  've 
always  thought  your  ma  roped  him  into  it, 
somehow." 

Rosemary's  eyes  filled  with  mist  and  she  bit 
her  lips. 

"She  was  wearin'  grey,"  continued  Aunt 
Matilda;  "light  grey  that  would  show  every 
spot.  I  told  her  it  was  n't  a  very  serviceable 
colour  and  she  had  the  impudence  to  laugh  at 
me.  'It'll  clean,  won't  it?'  she  says,  just 
like  that,  and  Frank  says,  right  after  her,  '  Yes, 
it  '11  clean/  He  knew  a  lot  about  it,  he  did. 
She  had  psychologised  him." 

"  You  mean  hypnotised,"  interrupted  Grand- 


JBrowtx  Hlpaca 


mother.  "There  ain't  no  such  word  as 
'psychologised.'" 

"Well,  if  there  ain't,  there  ought  to  be." 

"The  pink  has  come  out  in  the  blood,  too," 
Grandmother  remarked,  adjusting  her  spec 
tacles  firmly  upon  the  ever-useful  and  unfailing 
wart.  "She  was  wearin'  pink  roses  on  her 
bonnet  and  pink  ribbon  strings.  It  would  n't 
surprise  me  if  it  was  the  very  strings  what 
Rosemary  has  found  in  the  trunk  and  is  layin' 
out  to  wear." 

"Me  neither,"  Matilda  chimed  in. 

"She  was  wearin'  lace  on  her  petticoats  and 
high-heeled  shoes,  and  all  her  handkerchiefs 
was  fine  linen,"  Grandmother  continued. 
"Maybe  you'd  like  some  lace  ruffles  under 
your  grey  alpaca,  would  n't  you,  Rosemary?" 

The  girl  got  to  her  feet  blindly.  She  gath 
ered  up  the  dishes  with  cold  hands  that 
trembled,  took  them  out  into  the  kitchen,  and 
noiselessly  closed  the  door.  Her  heart  was 
hot  with  resentment,  even  though  she  had 
heard  the  story,  with  variations,  ever  since 
she  was  old  enough  to  understand  it. 

"Poor  little  mother,"  said  Rosemary,  to 
herself.  "Dear  little  mother!  Why  could  n't 
you  have  taken  me  with  you!" 

As  Grandmother  had  said,  for  the  hundredth 
time  and  more,  Frank  Starr  had  brought  home 
his  young  wife  unexpectedly.  The  surprise, 
in  itself,  was  a  shock  from  which  she  and 


/iDaster  of  tbe  I0me£art> 


Matilda  had  never  recovered.  Even  now, 
they  were  fond  of  alluding  to  the  years  of  ill- 
health  directly  caused  by  it,  and  of  subtly 
blaming  Rosemary  for  it. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  day,  the  young  couple 
had  departed  hastily,  the  bride  in  tears.  A 
year  or  so  afterward,  when  Rosemary  was 
born,  the  little  mother  died,  having  lived  only 
long  enough  to  ask  that  the  baby  be  named 
"Rosemary" — Rose  for  her  own  mother  and 
Mary  for  Grandmother  Starr. 

Stern,  white-faced,  and  broken-hearted, 
Frank  Starr  brought  his  child  to  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  almost  immediately  went  West. 
Intermittently  he  wrote  briefly,  sent  money, 
gave  insufficient  addresses,  or  none  at  all,  and, 
at  length,  disappeared.  At  the  time  his  last 
letter  was  written,  he  had  expected  to  take  a 
certain  steamer  plying  along  the  Western 
coast.  As  the  ship  was  wrecked  and  he  was 
never  heard  from  again,  it  seemed  that  Rose 
mary  was  an  orphan,  dependent  upon  her 
grandmother  and  aunt. 

In  their  way,  they  were  kind  to  her.  She 
was  sent  to  school  regularly,  and  had  plenty 
to  eat  and  wear,  of  a  certain  sort.  Every 
Spring,  Aunt  Matilda  made  the  year's  supply 
of  underclothing,  using  for  the  purpose  coarse, 
unbleached  muslin,  thriftily  purchased  by  the 
bolt.  The  brown  alpaca  and  brown  gingham, 
in  which  she  and  her  grandmother  and  aunt 


JSrown  HIpaca 


had  been  dressed  ever  since  she  could  remem 
ber,  were  also  bought  by  the  piece.  The 
fashion  of  the  garments  had  not  changed,  for 
one  way  of  making  a  gown  was  held  to  be  as 
good  as  another,  and  a  great  deal  easier,  if  the 
maker  were  accustomed  to  doing  it. 

So,  year  after  year,  Rosemary  wore  full 
skirts  of  brown  alpaca,  gathered  into  a  band, 
and  tight-fitting  waists,  boned  and  lined,  but 
toning  down  the  front  with  a  row  of  small  jet 
buttons.  The  sleeves  were  always  long,  plain, 
and  tight,  no  matter  what  other  people  were 
wearing.  A  bit  of  cheap  lace  gathered  at  the 
top  of  the  collar  was  the  only  attempt  at 
adornment. 

The  brown  ginghams  were  made  in  the  same 
way,  except  that  the  waists  were  not  boned. 
The  cheap  white  muslin,  which  served  as  Rose 
mary's  best  Summer  gown,  was  made  like  the 
ginghams.  Her  Winter  hat  was  brown  felt, 
trimmed  with  brown  ribbon,  her  Summer  hat 
was  brown  straw,  trimmed  with  brown  ribbon, 
and  her  Winter  coat  was  also  brown,  of  some 
heavy  material  which  wore  surpassingly  well. 

For  years  her  beauty-loving  soul  had  been 
in  revolt,  but  never  before  had  she  dared  to 
suggest  a  change.  The  lump  in  her  throat 
choked  her  as  she  washed  the  dishes,  heedless 
of  the  tears  that  fell  into  the  dish-pan.  But 
activity  is  a  sovereign  remedy  for  the  blues, 
and  by  the  time  the  kitchen  was  made  spotless, 


/iDaster  of  tbe 


Coiling 
Cbeerfullv 


she  had  recovered  her  composure.  She  washed 
her  face  in  cold  water,  dusted  her  red  eyes  with 
a  bit  of  corn-starch,  and  put  the  cups  and  plates 
in  their  proper  places. 

She  listened  half-fearfully  for  a  moment 
before  she  opened  the  door,  dreading  to  hear 
the  dear  memory  of  her  mother  still  under  dis 
cussion,  but  Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda 
were  wrangling  happily  over  the  hair-wreath  in 
the  parlour.  This  was  a  fruitful  source  of 
argument  when  all  other  subjects  had  failed, 
for  Grandmother  insisted  that  the  yellow  rose 
in  the  centre  was  made  from  the  golden  curls 
of  Uncle  Henry  Underwood's  oldest  boy, 
while  Aunt  Matilda  was  equally  certain  that 
it  had  come  from  Sarah  Starr's  second  daughter 
by  her  first  husband. 

Throughout  the  day  Rosemary  toiled  cheer 
fully.  She  swept,  dusted,  scrubbed,  cooked, 
did  errands,  mailed  the  letter  which  made  cer 
tain  another  bolt  of  brown  alpaca,  built  fires, 
and,  in  the  afternoon,  brought  down  the  heavy 
roll  of  unbleached  muslin  from  the  attic. 
Aunt  Matilda  cleared  off  the  dining-room 
table,  got  out  the  worn  newspaper  patterns, 
and  had  sent  Rosemary  out  for  a  paper  of  pins 
before  she  remembered  that  it  was  Friday,  and 
that  no  new  task  begun  on  a  Friday  could  ever 
be  a  success. 

So,  while  Rosemary  set  the  table  for  supper, 
the  other  two  harked  back  to  the  fateful  day 


JSrown  Blpaca 


when  Frank  Starr  brought  his  wife  home. 
They  were  in  the  next  room,  but  their  shrill 
voices  carried  well  and  Rosemary  heard  every 
word,  though  she  earnestly  wished  that  she 
need  not. 

"It  was  Friday,  too,  if  you'll  remember, 
when  Frank  brought  her,"  said  Aunt  Matilda, 
indicating  Rosemary  by  an  inclination  of  her 
untidy  head. 

"Then  you  can't  say  Friday 's  always 
unlucky,"  commented  Grandmother.  "  It  may 
have  been  bad  for  us  but  it  was  good  for  her. 
Supposin'  that  butterfly  had  had  her  to  bring 
up — what  'd  she  have  been  by  now?" 

"She  resembles  her  ma  some,"  answered 
Matilda,  irrelevantly;  "at  least  she  would  if 
she  was  pretty.  She 's  got  the  same  look 
about  her,  somehow." 

"I  never  thought  her  ma  was  pretty.  It 
was  always  a  mystery  to  me  what  Frank  saw 
in  her." 

"Come  to  supper,"  called  Rosemary, 
abruptly.  She  was  unable  to  bear  more. 

The  meal  was  unexpectedly  enlivened  by 
Grandmother's  discovery  of  a  well-soaked 
milk  ticket  in  the  pitcher.  From  the  weekly 
issue  of  The  Household  Guardian,  which  had 
reached  her  that  day,  she  had  absorbed  a  vast 
amount  of  knowledge  pertaining  to  the  man 
ners  and  customs  of  germs,  and  began  to  fear 
for  her  life.  At  first,  it  was  thought  to  be 


flDaster  of  tbe  Dineparo 


»t  tbe 

Close  of 
tbe  Stag 


Rosemary's  fault,  but  upon  recalling  that  for 
many  years  the  ticket  had  always  been  left  in 
the  pitcher,  the  blame  was  shifted  to  the  hap 
less  milkman. 

Some  discussion  ensued  as  to  what  should 
be  said  to  the  milkman  and  who  should  say  it, 
but  Rosemary  observed,  with  more  or  less 
reason,  that  if  his  attention  was  called  to  the 
error,  he  might  want  another  ticket.  At  length 
it  was  decided  to  say  nothing,  and  Grandmother 
personally  assumed  charge  of  the  ticket,  put 
ting  it  to  dry  between  newspapers  in  the  hope 
of  using  it  again. 

After  supper,  Rosemary  washed  the  dishes, 
set  the  table  for  breakfast,  and  sat  quietly, 
with  her  hands  folded,  until  the  others  were 
ready  to  go  to  bed.  She  wrapped  a  hot  brick 
in  red  flannel  for  each  of  them,  put  out  the 
lamp,  and  followed  them  upstairs.  Rejoicing 
in  the  shelter  afforded  by  a  closed  door,  she 
sat  in  the  dark,  shivering  a  little,  until  sounds 
suggestive  of  deep  slumber  came  from  the  two 
rooms  beyond. 

Then  she  lighted  the  two  candles  that  Alden 
Marsh  had  given  her,  and  hurriedly  undressed, 
pausing  only  to  make  a  wry  face  at  her  un 
bleached  muslin  nightgown,  entirely  without 
trimming.  She  brushed  her  hair  with  a  worn 
brush,  braided  it,  tied  it  with  a  bit  of  shoe 
string,  and  climbed  into  bed. 

After  assuring  herself  of  the  best  light  pos- 


Brown  alpaca 


sible,  she  unwrapped  the  little  red  book  he  had 
given  her  a  few  days  before,  and  began  to  read, 
eagerly,  one  of  the  two  wonderful  sonnet 
sequences  of  which  the  English  language 
boasts: 

"  Love's  throne  was  not  with  these;  but  far  above 
All  passionate  wind  of  welcome  and  farewell 

He  sat  in  breathless  bowers  they  dream  not  of; " 

As  by  magic,  the  cares  of  the  common  day 
slipped  away  from  her  and  her  spirit  began  to 
breathe.  Upon  the  heights  she  walked  firmly 
now,  and  as  surely  as  though  she  felt  the  hills 
themselves  beneath  her  feet. 

"Bom  with  her  life,  creature  of  poignant  thirst 
And  exquisite  hunger,  at  her  heart  Love  lay 
Quickening  in  darkness,  till  a  voice  that  day 
Cried  on  him  and  the  bonds  of  birth  were  burst." 


And  again: 

"  Lo  !  it  is  done.     Above  the  enthroning  threat 
The  mouth's  mould  testifies  of  voice  and  kiss, 

The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  foresee. 
Her  face  is  made  her  shrine.     Let  all  men  note 
That  in  all  years  (Oh,  love,  thy  gift  is  this!) 
They  that  would  look  on  her  must  come  to  me." 

The  divine  melody  of  the  words  stirred  her 
to  the  depths  of  her  soul.     Hunger  and  thirst 


28 


flDaster  of  tbe 


Ube 
tlnfcnown 


ran  riot  in  her  blood;  her  heart  surged  with  the 
fulness  of  its  tides. 

"  But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades  to-day; 
So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my  kiss 
Creep,  as  the  Spring  now  thrills  through  every  spray, 
Up  your  warm  throat  to  your  warm  lips,  for  this.  ..." 

Rosemary  put  the  book  aside  with  shaking 
hands.  "I  wonder,"  she  thought,  "how  it 
would  be  if  anyone  should  kiss  me.  Me,"  she 
whispered;  "not  the  women  in  the  books,  but 
the  real  me." 

The  book  slipped  to  the  floor  unheeded. 
She  sat  there  in  her  ugly  nightgown,  yearning 
with  every  fibre  of  her  for  the  unknown  joy. 
The  flickering  light  of  the  candles  was  answered 
by  the  strange  fire  that  burned  in  her  eyes. 
At  last  her  head  drooped  forward  and,  blind 
with  tears,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  dear  God  in  Heaven,"  she  prayed,  pas 
sionately.  "Open  the  door  of  the  House  of 
Life  to  me!  Send  someone  to  love  me  and  to 
take  me  away,  for  Christ's  sake — Amen ! " 


Ill 
Gbe  (Brutal  Ball 

AM  I  late,  Lady  Mother?" 
Madame  Marsh  turned  toward  Alden 
with   a  smile.     "Only    five    minutes,    and  it 
does  n't  matter,  since  it 's  Saturday." 

"  Five  minutes,"  he  repeated.  "  Some  clever 
person  once  said  that  those  who  are  five  min 
utes  late  do  more  to  upset  the  order  of  the 
universe  than  all  the  anarchists." 

Madame's  white  hands  fluttered  out  over 
the  silver  coffee  service.  "One  lump  or 
two?"  she  inquired,  with  the  sugar-tongs 
poised  over  his  cup. 

"Two,  please." 

Of  course  she  knew,  but  she  liked  to  ask. 
She  had  been  at  the  table,  waiting  for  him, 
since  the  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  struck 
eight. 

In  the  old  house  on  the  shore  of  the  river, 
breakfast  was  a  function,  luncheon  a  mild 
festivity,  and  dinner  an  affair  of  high  state. 
Madame  herself  always  appeared  at  dinner 
suitably  clad,  and,  moreover,  insisted  upon 


3o 


/IDaster  ot  tbe 


TTbe 

flDagic  of 


evening  clothes  for  her  son.    Once,  years  ago. 

,      ,  ,  ..  J  ° 

he  had  protested  at  the  formality. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  had  queried  coldly.  "  Shall 
we  not  be  as  civilised  as  we  can?  "  And,  again, 
when  he  had  presented  himself  at  the  dinner 
hour  in  the  serviceable  garb  of  every  day,  she 
had  refused  to  go  to  the  table  until  he  came 
down  again,  "dressed  as  a  gentleman  should 
be  dressed  after  six  o'clock." 

The  sunlight  streamed  into  every  nook  and 
cranny  of  the  room  where  they  sat  at  breakfast. 
It  lighted  up  the  polished  surfaces  of  old 
mahogany,  woke  forgotten  gleams  from  the 
worn  old  silver,  and  summoned  stray  bits  of 
iridescence  from  the  prisms  that  hung  from 
the  heavy  gilt  chandeliers. 

With  less  graciousness,  it  revealed  several 
places  on  the  frame  of  the  mirror  over  the 
mantel,  where  the  gold  had  fallen  away  and 
had  been  replaced  by  an  inferior  sort  of  gilding. 
By  some  subtle  trickery  with  the  lace  curtain 
that  hung  at  the  open  window,  it  laid  an  ara 
besque  of  delicate  shadow  upon  the  polished 
floor.  In  the  room  beyond,  where  Madame's 
crystal  ball  lay  on  the  mahogany  table,  with  a 
bit  of  black  velvet  beneath  it,  the  sun  had 
made  a  living  rainbow  that  carried  colour  and 
light  into  the'hall  and  even  up  the  stairway. 

As  she  sat  with  her  back  to  it,  the  light  was 
scarcely  less  gentle  with  Madame.  It  brought 
silver  into  her  white  hair,  shimmered  along  the 


TTbe  Crystal  JBall 


silken  surface  of  her  grey  gown,  and  deepened 
the  violet  shadows  in  her  eyes.  It  threw  into 
vivid  relief  the  cameo  that  fastened  the  lace 
at  her  throat,  rested  for  a  moment  upon  the 
mellow  gold  of  her  worn  wedding-ring  as  she 
filled  Alden's  cup,  and  paused  reminiscently 
at  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  where  there  had 
once  been  a  dimple. 

Across  the  table,  the  light  shone  full  upon 
Alden's  face,  but,  man-like,  he  had  no  fear  of 
it.  Madame  noted,  with  loving  approval,  how 
it  illumined  the  dark  depths  of  his  eyes  and 
showed  the  strength  of  his  firm,  boyish  chin. 
Each  day,  to  her,  he  grew  more  like  his  father. 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts,"  he  said. 

Madame  sighed.  "It  seems  so  strange," 
she  replied,  after  a  pensive  interval,  "that  I 
should  be  old  and  you  should  be  young.  You 
look  so  much  like  your  father  sometimes  that 
it  is  as  though  the  clock  had  turned  back  for 
him  and  I  had  gone  on.  You  're  older  now 
than  he  was  when  we  were  married,  but  I 
need  my  mirror  to  remind  me  that  I  'm  past 
my  twenties." 

"A  woman  and  her  mirror,"  laughed  Alden, 
helping  himself  to  a  crisp  muffin.  "  What  tales 
each  might  tell  of  the  other,  if  they  would  !" 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  dear,"  she  said, 
quickly.  "It 's  not  that  I  mind  growing  old. 
I  've  never  been  the  unhappy  sort  of  woman 
who  desires  to  keep  the  year  for  ever  at  the 


"Cales  of  a 
flOfcroc 


jflDaster  ot  tbe  Dineymrfc 


Over:  tbe 

JSreakfast 

<3upg 


Spring.  Each  season  has  its  own  beauty- 
its  own  charm.  We  would  tire  of  violets  and 
apple-blossoms  if  they  lasted  always.  Imper- 
manence  is  the  very  essence  of  joy — the  drop 
of  bitterness  that  enables  one  to  perceive  the 
sweet." 

"All  of  which  is  undoubtedly  true,"  he 
returned,  gallantly,  "but  the  fact  remains  that 
you  're  not  old  and  never  will  be.  You  're 
merely  a  girl  who  has  powdered  her  hair  for  a 
fancy-dress  ball." 

"Flatterer!"  she  said,  with  affected  severity, 
but  the  delicate  pink  flush  that  bloomed  in  her 
cheeks  showed  that  she  was  pleased. 

"Will  you  drive  to-day?"  he  asked,  as  they 
rose  from  the  table. 

"  I  think  not.  I  'm  a  hot-house  plant,  you 
know,  and  it  seems  cold  outside." 

" Have  the  new  books  come  yet?  " 

"  Yes,  they  came  yesterday,  but  I  have  n't 
opened  the  parcel." 

"  I  hope  they  won't  prove  as  disappointing 
as  the  last  lot.  There  was  n't  a  thing  I  could 
ask  Rosemary  to  read.  I  'm  continually  fall 
ing  back  on  the  old  ones." 

"The  old  books  are  the  best,  after  all,  like 
the  old  friends  and  the  old  ways." 

Alden  walked  around  the  room  restlessly, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  At  length  he  paused 
before  the  window  overlooking  the  vineyard, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  valley.  The  slope 


Zlbe  Crystal 


was  bare  of  snow,  now;  the  vines  waited  the 
call  of  Spring. 

A  soft  footfall  sounded  beside  him,  then  his 
mother  put  a  caressing  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
"It's  almost  time  to  begin,  isn't  it?"  she 
asked.  Her  beautiful  old  face  was  radiant. 

Impatiently,  he  shook  himself  free  from  her 
touch.  "Mother,"  he  began,  "let's  have  it 
out  once  for  all.  I  can't  stand  this  any  longer." 

She  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  with  all  the 
life  suddenly  gone  from  her  face  and  figure. 
In  a  moment  she  had  grown  old,  but  presently, 
with  an  effort,  she  regained  her  self-command. 
"  Yes?"  she  returned,  quietly.  "What  do  you 
wish  to  do?" 

"Anything,"  he  answered,  abruptly — "any 
thing  but  this.  I  want  to  get  out  where  I  can 
breathe,  where  the  sky  fits  the  ground  as  far  as 
you  can  see — where  it  is  n't  eternally  broken 
into  by  these  everlasting  hills.  I  'd  like  to 
know  that  dinner  would  n't  always  be  ready 
at  seven  o'clock — in  fact,  I  'd  like  sometimes 
not  to  have  any  dinner  at  all.  I  want  to  get 
forty  miles  from  a  schoolhouse  and  two  hun 
dred  miles  from  a  grape.  I  never  want  to  see 
another  grape  as  long  as  I  live." 

He  knew  that  he  was  hurting  her,  but  his 
insurgent  youth  demanded  its  right  of  speech 
after  long  repression.  "  I  'm  a  man,"  he  cried, 
"and  I  want  to  do  a  man's  work  in  the  world 
and  take  a  man's  place.  Just  because  my 


34  /iDaster  of  tbe 


ancestors  chose  to  slave  in  a  treadmill,  I  don't 
have  to  stay  in  it,  do  I?  You  have  no  right 
to  keep  me  chained  up  here! " 

The  clock  ticked  loudly  in  the  hall,  the  canary 
hopped  noisily  about  his  cage  and  chirped 
shrilly.  A  passing  breeze  came  through  the 
open  window  and  tinkled  the  prisms  that  hung 
from  the  chandelier.  It  sounded  like  the  echo 
of  some  far-away  bell. 

"No,"  said  Madame,  dully.  "As  you  say, 
I  have  no  right  to  keep  you  chained  up  here." 

"Mother!"  he  cried,  with  swift  remorse. 
"  Don't  misunderstand  me ! " 

She  raised  her  hand  and  motioned  him  to 
the  chair  opposite.  "Your  language  is  suf 
ficiently  explicit,"  she  went  on,  clearing  her 
throat.  "There  is  no  chance  for  anyone  to 
misunderstand  you.  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  — 
I  have  not  seen,  that  you  have  been  obliged 
to  ask  for  release  from  an — unpleasant- 
position.  Go — whenever  you  choose." 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment,  uncompre 
hending.  "Mother!  Oh,  Mother!"  he  whis 
pered.  "Do  you  really  mean  it?  Where  shall 
we  go?" 

"'We,'"  she  repeated.  "Now  I  do  mis 
understand  you." 

"Why,  Mother!  What  do  you  mean?  Of 
course  we  shall  go  together!)" 

Madame  rose  from  her  chair,  with  some 
difficulty.  "You  have  said,"  she  went  on, 


Ubc  Crystal  Ball 


choosing  her  words  carefully,  "that  I  had  no 
right  to  keep  you  chained  up  here.  I  admit 
it — I  have  not.  Equally,  you  have  no  right  to 
uproot  me." 

"But,  Mother!  Why,  I  could  n't  go  without 
you,  and  leave  you  alone.  We  belong  to 
gether,  you  and  I ! " 

The  hard  lines  of  her  mouth  relaxed,  ever  so 
little,  but  her  eyes  were  very  dark  and  stern. 
"As  much  as  we  belong  together,"  she  resumed, 
"  we  belong  here.  Dead  hands  built  this  house, 
dead  hands  laid  out  that  vineyard,  dead  hands 
have  given  us  our  work.  If  we  fail,  we  betray 
the  trust  of  those  who  have  gone  before  us — 
we  have  nothing  to  give  to  those  who  come. 

"  I  've  seen,"  she  continued,  with  rising 
passion.  "You  were  determined  from  the 
first  to  fail!" 

"Fail!"  he  echoed,  with  lips  that  scarcely 
moved. 

"Yes,  for  no  man  fails  except  by  his  own 
choice.  You  might  have  been  master  of  the 
vineyard,  but  you  have  preferred  to  have  the 
vineyard  master  you.  Confronted  with  an 
uncongenial  task,  you  slunk  away  from  it  and 
shielded  yourself  behind  the  sophistry  that  the 
work  was  unworthy  of  you.  As  if  any  work 
were  unworthy  of  a  man!" 

"I  hate  it,"  he  murmured,  resentfully. 

"Yes,  just  as  people  hate  their  superiors. 
You  hate  it  because  you  can't  do  it.  Year  by 


/IDaster  of  tbe 


£be  flame 
of  flDarsb 


year,  I  have  seen  the  crop  grow  less  and  less; 
year  by  year  I  have  seen  our  income  decreasing. 
We  are  living  now  on  less  than  half  of  what  we 
had  when  you  took  charge  of  the  vineyard. 
Last  year  the  grapes  were  so  poor  that  I  was 
ashamed  to  use  them  for  wine.  And  to  think," 
she  flashed  at  him,  bitterly,  "that  the  name  of 
Marsh  used  to  stand  for  quality!  What  does 
it  mean  now?  Nothing — thanks  to  you!" 

The  dull  red  rose  to  his  temples  and  he 
cringed  visibly.  "I — I—  '  he  stammered. 

"One  moment,  please,  and  then  I  shall  say 
no  more.  This  is  between  you  and  your  own 
manhood,  not  between  you  and  your  mother. 
I  put  no  obstacles  in  your  path — you  may  go 
when  and  where  you  choose.  I  only  ask  you 
to  remember  that  a  man  who  has  failed  to  do 
the  work  that  lies  nearest  his  hand  is  not 
likely  to  succeed  at  anything  else. 

"It  is  not  for  you  to  say  whether  or  not 
anything  is  worthy  when  it  has  once  been  given 
you  to  do.  You  have  only  to  do  it  and  make 
it  worthy  by  the  doing.  When  you  have 
proved  yourself  capable,  another  task  will  be 
given  you,  but  not  before.  You  hate  the 
vineyard  because  you  cannot  raise  good 
grapes,  you  hate  to  teach  school  because  you 
cannot  teach  school  well.  You  want  to  find 
something  easy  to  do — something  that  will 
require  no  effort." 

"No,"   he   interrupted,    "you're   mistaken 


TTbe  Crystal  Ball 


there.  I  want  to  do  something  great — I  'm 
not  asking  for  anything  easy." 

"Greatness  comes  slowly,"  she  answered, 
her  voice  softening  a  little,  "and  by  difficult 
steps — not  by  leaps  and  bounds.  You  must 
learn  the  multiplication  table  before  you  can 
be  an  astronomer.  None  the  less,  it  is  your 
right  to  choose." 

"Then,  granting  that,  why  would  n't  you 
come  with  me?  " 

"Because  it  is  also  my  right  to  choose  for 
myself  and  I  belong  here.  When  I  identified 
myself  with  the  Marsh  family,  I  did  it  in  good 
faith.  When  I  was  married,  I  came  here,  my 
children  were  born  here,  your  father  and 
brother  and  sister  died  here,  and  I  shall  die 
here  too.  When  you  go,  I  shall  do  my  best 
with  the  vineyard." 

She  spoke  valiantly,  but  there  was  a  pathetic 
little  quiver  in  her  lips  as  she  said  the  last 
words.  Alden  stood  at  the  window,  contem 
plating  the  broad  acres  bordered  with  pine. 

"  Do  not  say  when  I  go,  Mother — say  if  I  go." 

"  I  thought  you  had  decided,"  she  murmured, 
but  her  heart  began  to  beat  quickly,  never 
theless. 

"No,  I  have  n't,  but  I  '11  decide  in  the  course 
of  the  day.  Good-bye  for  the  present." 

He  stooped,  kissed  the  cheek  she  turned  to 
him,  and  went  out,  assuming  a  cheerfulness 
he  did  not  feel.  Madame  leaned  back  in  her 


/iDaster  of  tbe 


chair  with  her  eyes  closed,"  exhausted  by  the 
stress  of  emotion.  The  maid  came  in  for 
orders,  she  gave  them  mechanically,  then  went 
into  the  living-room.  She  was  anxious  to  be 
alone,  but  felt  unequal  to  the  exertion  of 
climbing  the  stairs. 

As  the  hours  passed,  she  slowly  regained 
her  composure.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
Alden  should  go  away  and  leave  her  when  they 
two  were  alone  in  the  world,  and,  as  he  said, 
belonged  together.  More  than  ever  that  morn 
ing  had  he  looked  like  his  father. 

Old  memories  crowded  thickly  upon  her  as 
she  sat  there.  Bits  of  her  childhood  flashed 
back  at  her  out  of  the  eternal  stillness,  "even 
as  the  beads  of  a  told  rosary."  Since  the  day 
she  met  Alden's  father,  everything  was  clear 
and  distinct,  for,  with  women,  life  begins  with 
love  and  the  rest  is  as  though  it  had  never  been. 

An  old  daguerreotype  was  close  at  hand  in  a 
table  drawer.  She  opened  the  ornate  case 
tenderly,  brushed  the  blue  velvet  that  lined  it, 
and  kissed  the  pictured  face  behind  the  glass. 
So  much  had  they  borne  together,  so  much 
had  they  loved,  and  all  was  gone — save  this ! 

The  serene  eyes,  for  ever  youthful,  looked 
back  at  her  across  the  years.  Except  for  the 
quaint,  old-fashioned  look  inseparable  from 
an  old  picture,  the  face  was  that  of  the  boy 
who  had  left  her  a  few  hours  ago.  The  deep, 
dark  eyes,  the  regular  features,  the  firm 


Ube  Crystal  JSall 


straight  chin,  the  lovable  mouth,  the  adorable 
boyishness — all  were  there,  shut  in  by  blue 
velvet  and  glass. 

Madame  smiled  as  she  sat  there  looking  at 
it.  She  had  always  had  her  way  with  the 
father — why  should  she  doubt  her  power  over 
the  son?  Supremely  maternal  as  she  was,  the 
sheltering  instinct  had  extended  even  to  the 
man  she  loved.  He  had  been  outwardly 
strong  and  self-confident,  assured,  self-reliant, 
even  severe  with  others,  but  behind  the  bold 
exterior,  as  always  to  the  eyes  of  the  beloved 
woman,  had  been  a  little,  shrinking,  helpless 
child,  craving  the  comfort  of  a  woman's  hand 
—the  sanctuary  of  a  woman's  breast. 

Even  in  her  own  hours  of  stress  and  trial, 
she  had  feared  to  lean  upon  him  too  much, 
knowing  how  surely  he  depended  upon  her. 
He  was  more  than  forty  when  he  died,  yet  to 
her  he  had  been  as  one  of  her  children,  though 
infinitely  dearer  than  any  child  could  be. 

The  quick  tears  started  at  the  thought  of 
the  children,  for  the  childish  prattle  had  so 
soon  been  hushed,  the  eager  little  feet  had  been 
so  quickly  stilled.  Alden  was  the  first-born 
son,  with  an  older  daughter,  who  had  been 
named  Virginia,  for  her  mother.  Virginia 
would  have  been  thirty-two  now,  and  pro 
bably  married,  with  children  of  her  own.  The 
second  son  would  have  been  twenty-eight,  and, 
possibly,  married  also.  There  might  have 


flDaster  of  tbe  t)ine£art> 


•Cbe  fjousc 
of 

Memories 


been  a  son-in-law,  a  daughter-in-law,  and  three 
or  four  children  by  this  time,  had  these  two 
lived. 

So,  through  the  House  of  Memories  her 
fancy  sped,  as  though  borne  on  wings.  Child 
ish  voices  rang  through  the  empty  corridors 
and  the  fairy  patter  of  tiny  feet  sounded  on  the 
stairs.  One  by  one,  out  of  the  shadows,  old 
joys  and  old  loves  came  toward  her;  for 
gotten  hopes  and  lost  dreams.  Hands  long 
since  mingled  with  the  dust  clasped  hers  once 
more  with  perfect  understanding — warm  lips 
were  crushed  upon  hers  with  the  old  ecstasy 
and  the  old  thrill.  Even  the  sorrows,  from 
which  the  bitterness  had  strangely  vanished, 
came  back  out  of  the  darkness,  not  with  hesi 
tancy,  but  with  assurance,  as  though  already 
welcomed  by  a  friend. 

Alden  did  not  come  home  to  luncheon,  so 
Madame  made  only  a  pretence  of  eating.  As 
the  long  afternoon  wore  away,  she  reproached 
herself  bitterly  for  her  harshness.  There  had 
been  pain  in  the  boy's  eyes  when  he  bent  to 
kiss  her — and  she  had  turned  her  cheek. 

She  would  have  faced  any  sort  of  privation 
for  this  one  beloved  son — the  only  gift  Life  had 
not  as  yet  taken  back.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he 
knew  best,  for  have  not  men  led  and  women 
followed  since,  back  in  Paradise,  the  First 
Woman  gave  her  hand  trustingly  to  the  First 
Man? 


Ube  Crystal  ISali 


Long,  slanting  sunbeams,  alight  with  the 
gold  of  afternoon,  came  into  the  room  by 
another  window,  and  chanced  upon  the  crystal 
ball.  Madame's  face  grew  thoughtful.  "I 
wonder,"  she  mused,  "if  I  dare  to  try! " 

She  was  half  afraid  of  her  own  sorcery,  be 
cause,  so  many  times,  that  which  she  had  seen 
had  come  true.  Once,  when  a  child  was  ill, 
she  had  gazed  into  the  crystal  and  seen  the 
little  white  coffin  that,  a  week  later,  was  carried 
out  of  the  front  door.  Again,  she  had  seen  the 
vision  of  a  wedding  which  was  unexpectedly 
fulfilled  later,  when  a  passing  cousin  begged 
the  hospitality  of  her  house  for  a  marriage. 

She  drew  her  chair  up  to  the  table,  made 
sure  of  the  proper  light,  and  leaned  over  the 
ball.  For  a  time  there  was  darkness,  then 
confused  images  that  meant  nothing,  then  at 
last,  clear  and  distinct  as  a  flash  of  lightning, 
her  own  son,  holding  a  woman  in  his  arms. 

Madame  pushed  the  ball  aside,  profoundly 
disturbed.  Was  the  solution  of  their  problem, 
then,  to  come  in  that  way?  And  who  was  the 
woman  ? 

In  the  dazzling  glimpse  she  had  caught  no 
detail  save  a  shimmering  white  gown  and  her 
son's  face  half  hidden  by  the  masses  of  the 
woman's  hair.  A  faint  memory  of  the  hair 
persisted;  she  had  never  seen  anything  quite 
like  it.  Was  it  brown,  or  golden,  or — perhaps 
red?  Yes,  red — that  was  it,  and  in  all  the 


Uisiona  in 

tbc  Crystal 

Sail 


42  /IDaster  of  tbe  Wneparo 


circle  of  their  acquaintance  there  was  no 
woman  with  red  hair. 

It  was  evident,  then,  that  he  was  going 
away.  Very  well,  she  would  go  too.  And 
when  Alden  had  found  his  woman  with  the 
red  hair,  she  would  come  back,  alone — of  course 
they  would  not  want  her. 

She  felt  suddenly  lonely,  as  though  she  had 
lived  too  long.  For  the  first  time,  she  forgot 
to  light  the  candles  on  the  mantel  when  the 
room  became  too  dark  to  see.  She  had  sat 
alone  in  the  darkness  for  some  time  when  she 
heard  Alden's  step  outside. 

When  he  came  in,  he  missed  the  accustomed 
lights.  "Mother!"  he  called,  vaguely  alarmed. 
Then,  again:  "Mother!  Where  are  you, 
Mother  dear?" 

"  I  'm  here,"  she  responded,  rising  from  her 
chair  and  fumbling  along  the  mantel-shelf  for 
matches.  "I  'm  sorry  I  forgot  the  candles." 
The  mere  sound  of  his  voice  had  made  her 
heart  leap  with  joy. 

He  was  muddy  and  tired  and  his  face  was 
very  white.  "  I  know  it 's  late,"  he  said, 
apologetically,  "and  I  '11  go  up  to  dress  right 
now.  I — I 've  decided  to — stay." 

His  voice  broke  a  little  on  the  last  word. 
Madame  drew  his  tall  head  down  and  kissed 
him,  forgetting  all  about  the  crystal  ball. 
"For  your  own  sake?"  she  asked;  "or  for 
mine?" 


Crystal  Ball 


43 


"For  yours,  of  course.  I  '11  try  to  do  as 
you  want  me  to,  Lady  Mother.  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  make  you  happy." 

For  answer,  she  kissed  him  again.  "  I  must 
dress,  too,"  she  said. 

When  they  met  at  dinner,  half  an  hour  later, 
neither  made  any  reference  to  the  subject  that 
had  been  under  discussion.  Outwardly  all 
was  calm  and  peaceful,  as  deep-flowing  waters 
may  hide  the  rocks  beneath.  By  the  time 
coffee  was  served,  they  were  back  upon  the  old 
footing  of  affectionate  comradeship. 

Afterward,  he  read  the  paper  while  Madame 
played  solitaire.  When  she  turned  the  queen 
of  hearts,  she  remembered  the  red-haired 
woman  whom  she  had  seen  in  the  crystal  ball. 
And  they  were  not  going  away,  after  all! 
Madame  felt  that  she  had  in  some  way  gained 
an  unfair  advantage  over  the  red-haired 
woman.  There  would  be  no  one,  now,  to  take 
her  boy  away  from  her. 

And  yet,  when  the  time  came  for  her  to  go, 
would  she  want  Alden  to  live  on  in  the  old 
house  alone,  looking  after  the  hated  vineyard 
and  teaching  the  despised  school  ?  At  best,  it 
could  be  only  a  few  years  more. 

Feeling  her  grave,  sweet  eyes  upon  him, 
Alden  looked  up  from  his  paper.  "What  is  it, 
Mother?" 

"Dear,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,"!  want 
you  to  marry  and  bring  me  a  daughter. 


Bn  "Unfair 
SU>x>antagc 


44 


flDaster  of  tbe  IDinegarfc 


©ream 


I  want  to  hold  your  son  in  my  arms  before  I 
die." 

"Rather  a  large  order,  isn't  it?"  He 
laughed  indifferently,  and  went  on  with  his 
reading.  Madame  laughed,  too,  as  she  con 
tinued  her  solitaire,  but,  none  the  less,  she 
dreamed  that  night  that  the  house  was  full  of 
women  with  red  hair,  and  that  each  one  was 
gazing  earnestly  into  the  depths  of  a  crystal 
ball. 


IV 

BprU's  Sun 

WITH  a  rush  of  warm  winds  and  a  tinkle 
of  raindrops,  Spring  danced  over  the 
hills.  The  river  stirred  beneath  the  drifting 
ice,  then  woke  into  musical  murmuring.  Even 
the  dead  reeds  and  dry  rushes  at  the  bend 
of  the  stream  gave  forth  a  faint  melody  when 
swayed  by  the  full  waters  beneath. 

The  joy  of  morning  was  abroad  in  the 
world.  Robins  sang  it,  winds  whispered  it, 
and,  beneath  the  sod,  every  fibre  of  root  and 
tree  quivered  with  aspiration,  groping  through 
the  labyrinth  of  darkness  with  a  blind  impulse 
toward  the  light.  Across  the  valley,  on  the 
southern  slope,  a  faint  glow  of  green  seemed  to 
hover  above  the  dark  tangle  of  the  vineyard, 
like  some  indefinite  suggestion  of  colour,  pro 
mising  the  sure  beauty  yet  to  come. 

Rosemary  had  climbed  the  Hill  of  the 
Muses  early  in  the  afternoon.  She,  too,  was 
awake,  in  every  fibre  of  body  and  soul. 
Springs  had  come  and  gone  before — twenty- 
five  of  them — but  she  had  never  known  one 
like  this.  A  vague  delight  possessed  her,  and 


46  /iDaster  of  tbe 


her  heart  throbbed  as  from  imprisoned  wings. 
Ji0n     Purpose  and  uplift  and  aspiration  swayed  her 
strangely;  she  yearned  blindly  toward  some 
unknown  goal. 

She  had  not  seen  Alden  for  a  long  time. 
The  melting  ice  and  snow  had  made  the  hill 
unpleasant,  if  not  impossible,  and  the  annual 
sewing  had  kept  her  closely  indoors.  She  and 
Aunt  Matilda  had  made  the  year's  supply  of 
underwear  from  the  unbleached  muslin,  and 
one  garment  for  each  from  the  bolt  of  brown- 
and-white  gingham.  Rosemary  disdained  to 
say  "gown"  or  even  "dress,"  for  the  result  of 
her  labour  was  a  garment,  simply,  and  nothing 
more. 

Every  third  Summer  she  had  a  new  white 
muslin,  of  the  cheapest  quality,  which  she 
wore  to  church  whenever  it  was  ordained  that 
she  should  go.  Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda 
were  deeply  religious,  but  not  according  to  any 
popular  plan.  They  had  their  own  private 
path  to  Heaven,  and  had  done  their  best  to  set 
Rosemary's  feet  firmly  upon  it,  but  with  small 
success. 

When  she  was  a  child,  Rosemary  had  spent 
many  long,  desolate  Sunday  afternoons  think 
ing  how  lonely  it  would  be  in  Heaven  with 
nobody  there  but  God  and  the  angels  and  the 
Starr  family.  Even  the  family,  it  seemed,  was 
not  to  be  admitted  as  an  entity,  but  separately, 
according  to  individual  merit.  Grandmother 


Bpril's  Sun 


and  Aunt  Matilda  had  many  a  wordy  battle  as 
to  who  would  be  there  and  who  would  n't.  but 
both  were  sadly  agreed  that  Frank  must  stay 
outside. 

Rosemary  was  deeply  hurt  when  she  dis 
covered  that  Grandmother  did  not  expect  to 
meet  her  son  there,  and  as  for  her  son's  wife— 
the  old  lady  had  dismissed  the  hapless  bride  to 
the  Abode  of  the  Lost  with  a  single  compre 
hensive  snort.  Alternately,  Rosemary  had 
been  rewarded  for  good  behaviour  by  the 
promise  of  Heaven  and  punished  for  small  mis 
demeanours  by  having  the  gates  closed  in  her 
face.  As  she  grew  older  and  began  to  think 
for  herself,  she  wondered  how  Grandmother 
and  Aunt  Matilda  had  obtained  their  celestial 
appointment  as  gate-keepers,  and  reflected 
that  it  might  possibly  be  very  pleasant  outside, 
with  the  father  and  mother  whom  she  had 
never  seen. 

So,  of  late  years,  religion  had  not  disturbed 
Rosemary  much.  She  paid  no  attention  to 
the  pointed  allusions  to  "heathen"  and  "in 
fidels"  that  assailed  her  ears  from  time  to 
time,  and  ceased  to  feel  her  young  flesh  creep 
when  the  Place  of  Torment  was  described  with 
all  the  power  of  two  separate  and  vivid  imagina 
tions.  Disobedience  troubled  her  no  longer 
unless  she  was  found  out,  and,  gradually,  she 
developed  a  complicated  system  of  deception. 

When  she  was  discovered  reading  a  novel, 


48  toaster  of  tbe  IDmesaro 

she  had  accepted  the  inevitable  punishment 
with  outward  submission.  Naturally,  it  was 
not  easy  to  tear  out  the  leaves  one  by  one, 
especially  from  a  borrowed  book,  and  put  them 
into  the  fire,  saying,  each  time  she  put  one  in: 
"  I  will  never  read  another  novel  as  long  as  I 
live,"  but  she  had  compelled  herself  to  doit 
gracefully.  Only  her  flaming  cheeks  had 
betrayed  her  real  feeling. 

A  week  later,  when  she  was  locked  in  her 
room  for  the  entire  day,  on  account  of  some 
slight  offence,  she  had  wept  so  much  over  the 
sorrows  of  Jane  Eyre  that  even  Aunt  Matilda 
was  affected  when  she  brought  up  the  bread 
and  milk  for  the  captive's  supper.  Rosemary 
had  hidden  the  book  under  the  mattress  at  the 
first  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  but  Aunt 
Matilda,  by  describing  the  tears  of  penitence 
to  the  stern  authority  below,  obtained  permis 
sion  for  Rosemary  to  come  down-stairs,  eat  her 
bread  and  milk  at  the  table,  and,  afterward,  to 
wash  the  dishes. 

She  continued  to  borrow  books  from  the 
school  library,  however,  and  later  from  Alden 
Marsh.  When  he  learned  that  she  dared  not 
read  at  night,  for  fear  of  burning  too  much  oil, 
he  began  to  supply  her  with  candles.  Thus  the 
world  of  books  was  opened  to  her,  and  many 
a  midnight  had  found  her,  absorbed  and 
breathless,  straining  her  eyes  over  the  last 
page.  More  than  once  she  had  read  all  night 


Bpril's  Sun 


49 


and  fallen  asleep  afterward  at  the  breakfast 
table. 

Once,  long  ago,  Alden  had  called  upon  her, 
but  the  evening  was  made  so  unpleasant,  both 
for  him  and  his  unhappy  hostess,  that  he  never 
came  again.  Rosemary  used  to  go  to  the 
schoolhouse  occasionally,  to  sit  and  talk  for 
an  hour  or  so  after  school,  but  some  keen-eyed 
busy-body  had  told  Grandmother  and  the 
innocent  joy  had  come  to  an  abrupt  conclusion. 
Rosemary  kept  her  promise  not  to  go  to  the 
schoolhouse  simply  because  she  dared  not 
break  it. 

The  windows  of  the  little  brown  house, 
where  the  Starrs  lived,  commanded  an  unob 
structed  view  of  the  Marshs'  big  Colonial  porch, 
in  Winter,  when  the  trees  between  were  bare, 
so  it  was  impossible  for  the  girl  to  go  there, 
openly,  as  Mrs.  Marsh  had  never  returned  Aunt 
Matilda's  last  call. 

Sometimes  Alden  wrote  to  her,  but  she  was 
unable  to  answer,  for  stationery  and  stamps 
were  unfamiliar  possessions;  Grandmother  held 
the  purse-strings  tightly,  and  every  penny 
had  to  be  accounted  for.  On  Thursday, 
Rosemary  always  went  to  the  post-office,  as 
The  Household  Guardian  was  due  then,  so  it 
happened  that  occasionally  she  received  a  let 
ter,  or  a  book  which  she  could  not  return  until 
Spring. 

At  length,  the  Hill  of  the  Muses  became  the 


Occasional 

flDeetings 


/IDaster  of  tbe  IDinesaro 


fat  Hbove 
•bee 


one  possible  rendezvous,  though,  at  the  chosen 
hour  of  four,  Rosemary  was  usually  too  weary 
to  attempt  the  long  climb.  Moreover,  she 
must  be  back  by  six  to  get  supper,  so  one  little 
hour  was  all  she  might  ever  hope  for,  at  a  time. 

Yet  these  hours  had  become  a  rosary  of 
memories  to  her,  jewelled  upon  the  chain  of  her 
uneventful  days.  Alden's  unfailing  friendli 
ness  and  sympathy  warmed  her  heart,  though 
she  had  never  thought  of  him  as  a  possible 
lover.  In  her  eyes,  he  was  as  far  above  her  as 
the  fairy  prince  had  been  above  Cinderella.  It 
was  only  kindness  that  made  him  stoop  at  all. 

When  the  school  bell,  sounding  for  dismissal, 
echoed  through  the  valley  below,  Rosemary 
hung  her  scarlet  signal  to  the  outstanding 
bough  of  the  lowest  birch,  and  went  back  to 
the  crest  of  the  hill  to  wait  for  him.  She  had 
with  her  the  little  red  book  that  he  had  given 
her  long  ago,  and  which  she  had  not  had 
opportunity  to  return. 

She  turned  the  pages  regretfully,  though 
she  knew  the  poems  almost  by  heart.  Days, 
while  she  washed  dishes  and  scrubbed,  the 
exquisite  melody  of  the  words  haunted  her, 
like  some  far-off  strain  of  music.  For  the  first 
time  she  had  discovered  the  subtle  harmonies 
of  which  the  language  is  capable,  entirely  apart 
from  sense. 

Living  lines  stood  out  upon  the  printed 
page,  glowing  with  a  rapture  all  their  own. 


Hprtl's  Sun 


"Now,  shadowed  by  his  wings,  our  faces  yearn 
Together," 

she  read  aloud,  thrilled  by  the  very  sound. 

"Tender  as  dawn's  first  hill-fire,"  .  .  .  "  What  mar 
shalled  marvels  on  the  skirts  of  May,"  .  .  .  "Shadows 
and  shoals  that  edge  eternity."  .  .  . 

"Oh,"  she  breathed,  "if  only  I  did  n't  have 
to  give  it  back!" 

"  Lo!  what  am  1  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all  ? 

One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the  sand, — 
One  little  heart-flame  sheltered  in  his  hand." 

"What,  indeed?"  thought  Rosemary. 
What  was  she  to  Love,  or  what  ever  might  she 
be? 


"  But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades  to-day; 
So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my  kiss 
Creep,  as  the  Spring  now  thrills  through  every  spray, 
Up  your  warm  throat  to  your  warm  lips:  for  this". .  . 

Rosemary  put  the  book  down,  face  to  face 
at  last  with  self-knowledge.  She  would  have 
torn  down  the  flaming  signal,  but  it  was  too 
late.  If  he  were  coming — and  he  never  had 
failed  to  come — he  would  be  there  very  soon. 

Alden  had  closed  his  desk  with  a  sigh  as  the 
last  pair  of  restless  little  feet  tumbled  down 


of  tbe  Wneparfc 


XHneventa 
ful  E»a^8 


the  schoolhouse  steps.  Scraps  of  paper  littered 
the  floor  and  the  room  was  musty  and  close  in 
spite  of  two  open  windows.  From  where  he 
sat,  he  could  see  the  vineyard,  with  its  per 
petual  demand  upon  him.  Since  his  painful 
interview  with  his  mother,  he  had  shrunk, 
inwardly,  from  even  the  sight  of  the  vineyard. 
It  somehow  seemed  to  have  a  malicious  air 
about  it.  Mutely  it  challenged  his  manhood, 
menaced  his  soul. 

He  had  accepted  the  inevitable  but  had  not 
ceased  to  rebel.  The  coming  years  stretched 
out  before  him  in  a  procession  of  grey,  unevent 
ful  days.  Breakfast,  school,  luncheon,  school, 
long  evenings  spent  in  reading  to  his  mother, 
and,  from  Spring  to  frost,  the  vineyard,  with 
its  multitudinous  necessities. 

He  felt,  keenly,  that  his  mother  did  not  quite 
understand  him.  In  fact,  nobody  did,  unless 
it  was  Rosemary,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
weeks.  Brave  little  Rosemary,  for  whom  life 
consisted  wholly  of  deprivations !  How  seldom 
she  complained  and  how  often  she  had  soothed 
his  discontent! 

It  was  three  years  ago  that  she  had  come 
shyly  to  the  schoolhouse  and  asked  if  she  might 
borrow  a  book.  He  had  known  her,  of  course, 
before  that,  but  had  scarcely  exchanged  a 
dozen  words  with  her.  When  he  saw  her, 
rarely,  at  church,  Grandmother  or  Aunt  Matilda 
was  always  with  her,  and  the  Starrs  had  had 


Bpril's  Sun 


nothing  to  do  with  the  Marshs  for  several 
years  past,  as  Mrs.  Marsh  had  been  remiss  in 
her  social  obligations. 

At  first,  Rosemary  had  been  purely  negative 
to  him,  and  he  regarded  her  with  kindly  in 
difference.  The  girl's  personality  seemed  as 
ashen  as  her  hair,  as  colourless  as  her  face. 
Her  dull  eyes  seemed  to  see  nothing,  to  care 
for  nothing.  Within  the  last  few  months  he 
had  begun  to  wonder  whether  her  cold  and 
impassive  exterior  might  not  be  the  shield 
with  which  she  protected  an  abnormal  sensitive 
ness.  Now  and  then  he  had  longed  to  awaken 
the  woman  who  dwelt  securely  within  the 
forbidding  fortress — to  strike  from  the  flint 
some  stray  gleams  of  soul. 

Of  late  he  had  begun  to  miss  her,  and,  each 
afternoon,  to  look  with  a  little  more  conscious 
eagerness  for  the  scarlet  thread  on  the  hilltop 
signalling  against  the  grey  sky  beyond.  His 
interest  in  her  welfare  was  becoming  more 
surely  personal,  not  merely  human.  During 
the  Winter,  though  he  had  seen  her  only  twice, 
he  had  thought  about  her  a  great  deal,  and 
had  written  to  her  several  times  without 
expecting  an  answer. 

The  iron  bars  of  circumstance  which  bound 
her,  had,  though  less  narrowly,  imprisoned  him 
also.  It  seemed  permanent  for  them  both, 
and,  indeed,  the  way  of  escape  was  even  more 
definitely  closed  for  Rosemary  than  for  him. 


54 


flDaster  of  tbe  IDineparfc 


•Rosemary 


He  sighed  as  he  rose  and  brushed  the  chalk 
from  his  clothes.  Through  force  of  habit,  he 
looked  up  to  the  crest  of  the  Hill  of  the  Muses  as 
he  locked  the  door.  The  red  ribbon  fluttered 
like  an  oriflamme  against  the  blue-and-white  of 
the  April  sky.  His  heart  quickened  its  beat  a 
little  as  he  saw  it,  and  his  steps  insensibly 
hastened  as  he  began  to  climb  the  hill. 

When  he  took  her  hand,  with  a  word  of 
friendly  greeting,  he  noticed  a  change  in  her, 
though  she  had  made  a  valiant  effort  to  recover 
her  composure.  This  was  a  new  Rosemary, 
with  eyes  shining  and  the  colour  flaming  in  her 
cheeks  and  lips. 

"Spring  seems  to  have  come  to  you,  too," 
he  said,  seating  himself  on  the  log  beside  her. 
"How  well  you  look!" 

The  deep  crimson  mounted  to  her  temples, 
then  as  swiftly  retreated.  "  Better  take  down 
the  ribbon,"  she  suggested,  practically. 

"I  've  been  watching  a  long  time  for  this," 
he  resumed,  as  he  folded  it  and  restored  it  to  its 
place  in  the  hollow  tree.  "What  have  you 
been  doing?" 

"All  the  usual  dreary  things,  to  which  a 
mountain  of  sewing  has  been  added." 

"  Is  that  a  new  gown?" 

She  laughed,  mirthlessly.  "It's  as  new  a 
gown  as  I  '11  ever  have,"  she  returned,  trying 
to  keep  her  voice  even.  "My  wardrobe  con 
sists  of  an  endless  parade  of  brown  alpaca  and 


Hptil's  Sun 


brown  gingham  garments,  all  made  exactly 
alike." 

"Like  a  dozen  stage  soldiers,  marching  in 
and  out,  to  create  the  illusion  of  a  procession?" 

"I  suppose  so.  You  know  I  've  never  seen 
a  stage,  much  less  a  stage  soldier." 

Alden's  heart  softened  with  pity.  He 
longed  to  take  Rosemary  to  town  and  let  her 
feast  her  eyes  upon  some  gorgeous  spectacle; 
to  see  her  senses  run  riot,  for  once,  with  colour 
and  light  and  sound. 

"I  feel  sometimes,"  she  was  saying,  "as 
though  I  had  sold  my  soul  for  pretty  things  in 
some  previous  existence,  and  was  paying  the 
penalty  for  it  now." 

"You  love  pretty  things,  don't  you?" 

She  turned  brimming  eyes  toward  him. 
"Love  them?"  she  repeated,  brokenly.  "There 
are  n't  words  enough  to  say  how  much!" 

From  a  fresh  point  of  view  he  saw  her  count 
less  deprivations,  binding  her,  thwarting  her, 
oppressing  her  on  all  sides  by  continual  denial. 
His  own  rebellion  against  circumstances  seemed 
weak  and  unworthy. 

"Whenever  I  think  of  you,"  he  said,  in  a  dif 
ferent  tone,"  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself.  I  have 
freedom,  of  a  certain  sort,  and  you  've  never 
had  a  chance  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the  word. 
You  're  dominated,  body  and  soul,  by  a  couple 
of  old  women  who  have  n't  discovered,  as  yet, 
that  the  earth  is  round  and  not  flat." 


flDaster  ot  tbe 


"My  soul  is  n't  bound,"  returned  Rosemary, 
softly,  "but  it  would  have  been,  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  you." 

"  I  ?    Why,  my  dear  girl,  what  have  I  done?  " 

"Everything.  Think  of  all  the  books 
you  've  loaned  me,  all  the  candles  you  've 
given  me — all  the  times  you  've  climbed  this 
steep  hill  just  to  talk  to  me  for  an  hour  and  give 
me  new  strength  to  go  on." 

"It's  only  selfishness,  Rosemary.  I  knew 
you  were  here  and  I  like  to  talk  to  you.  Don't 
forget  that  you  've  meant  something  to  me, 
too.  Why,  you  're  the  only  woman  I  know, 
except  my  mother." 

"  Your  mother  is  lovely,"  she  returned.  "  I 
wish  I  could  go  to  see  her  once  in  a  while.  I 
like  to  look  at  her.  Even  her  voice  is  different 
someway." 

"Yes,  mother  is  'different,'"  he  agreed,  idly. 
"It's  astonishing,  sometimes,  how  'different' 
she  manages  to  be.  We  had  it  out  the  other 
day,  about  the  vineyard,  and  I  'm  to  stay 
here — all  the  rest  of  my  life,"  he  concluded 
bitterly. 

"I  don't  see  why,  if  you  don't  want  to," 
she  answered,  half-fearfully.  "  You  're  a  man, 
and  men  can  do  as  they  please." 

"It  probably  seems  so  to  you,  but  I  assure 
you  it 's  very  far  from  the  truth.  I  wonder, 
now  and  then,  if  any  of  us  ever  really  do  as  we 
please.  Freedom  is  the  great  gift." 


Bpril's  Sun  57 


"And  the  great  loneliness,"  she  added,  after 
a  pause. 

"You  may  be  right,"  he  sighed.  "Still, 
I  'd  like  to  try  it  for  a  while.  It 's  the  one 
thing  I  'd  choose.  What  would  you  take,  if 
you  could  have  anything  you  wanted?" 

"Do  you  mean  for  just  a  little  while,  or  for 
always?" 

"  For  always.  The  one  great  gift  you  'd 
choose  from  all  that  Life  has  to  give." 

"I  'd  take  love,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
She  was  not  looking  at  him  now,  but  far  across 
the  valley  where  the  vineyard  lay.  Her  face 
was  wistful  in  the  half-light;  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  quivered,  ever  so  little. 

Alden  looked  at  her,  then  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  looked  at  her  again.  In  some  subtle  way 
she  had  changed,  or  he  had,  since  they  last 
met.  Never  before  had  he  thought  of  her  as  a 
woman;  she  had  been  merely  another  individ 
ual  to  whom  he  liked  to  talk.  To-day  her 
womanhood  carried  its  own  appeal.  She  was 
not  beautiful  and  no  one  would  ever  think  her 
so,  but  she  was  sweet  and  wholesome  and  had 
a  new,  indefinable  freshness  about  her  that, 
in  another  woman,  would  have  been  called 
charm. 

It  came  to  him,  all  at  once,  that,  in  some 
mysterious  way,  he  and  Rosemary  belonged 
together.  They  had  been  born  to  the  same 
lot,  and  must  spend  all  their  days  in  the  valley, 


58  faster  of  tbe  Wnegarfc 


hedged  in  by  the  same  narrow  restrictions. 
Even  an  occasional  hour  on  the  Hill  of  the 
Muses  was  forbidden  to  her,  and  constant 
scheming  was  the  price  she  was  obliged  to 
pay  for  it. 

The  restraint  chafed  and  fretted  him,  for 
her  as  much  as  for  himself.  It  was  absurd 
that  a  girl  of  twenty-five  and  a  man  of  thirty 
should  not  have  some  little  independence  of 
thought  and  action.  The  silence  persisted 
and  finally  became  awkward. 

"It's  the  book,"  said  Rosemary,  with  a 
forced  laugh.  She  was  endeavouring  to  brush 
her  mood  away  as  though  it  were  an  annoying 
cobweb.  "  I  've  grown  foolish  over  the  book." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  liked  it,"  he  returned,  taking 
it  from  her.  "I  was  sure  you  would.  What 
part  of  it  did  you  like  best?" 

"All  of  it.  I  can't  choose,  though  of  course 
some  of  it  seems  more  beautiful  than  the  rest." 

"I  suppose  you  know  it  by  heart,  now, 
don't  you?" 

"Almost." 

"  Listen.    Is  n't  this  like  to-day?" 

"Spring's  foot  half  falters;  scarce  she  yet  may  know 

The  leafless  blackthorn-blossom  from  the  snow; 
And  through  her  bowers   the    wind's   way    still    is 
clear." 

Rosemary  got  to  her  feet  unsteadily.  She 
went  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  on  the  side  farthest 


Hpril's  Sun 


from  the  vineyard,  and  stood  facing  the  sun 
set.  Scarcely  knowing  that  she  had  moved, 
Alden  read  on: 

"  But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades  to-day  ; 
So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my  kiss " 

A  smothered  sob  made  him  look  up  quickly. 
She  stood  with  her  back  to  him,  but  her 
shoulders  were  shaking.  He  dropped  the 
book  and  went  to  her. 

A  strange,  new  tenderness  possessed  him. 
"Rosemary,"  he  whispered,  slipping  his  arm 
around  her.  "What  is  it — dear?" 

"Nothing,"  she  sobbed,  trying  to  release 
herself.  "  I  'm — I  'm  tired — and  foolish— 
that 's  all.  Please  let  me  go!" 

Something  within  him  stirred  in  answer  to 
the  girl's  infinite  hunger,  to  the  unspoken  ap 
peal  that  vibrated  through  her  voice.  "  No," 
he  said,  with  quiet  mastery,  "I  won't  let  you 
go.  I  want  to  take  care  of  you,  Rosemary. 
Leave  all  that  misery  and  come  to  me,  won't 
you  ?  " 

Her  eyes  met  his  for  an  instant,  then  turned 
away.  "  I  don't  quite — understand,"  she  said, 
with  difficulty. 

"  I  'm  asking  you  to  marry  me — to  come  to 
mother  and  me.  We  '11  make  the  best  of  it 
together." 

Her  eyes  met  his  clearly  now,  but  her  face 


6o 


Der 

JEti-tbrfflbt 


was  pale  and  cold.  She  was  openly  incredulous 
and  frightened. 

"I  mean  it,  dear.  Don't  be  afraid.  Oh, 
Rosemary,  can't  you  trust  me?" 

"Trust  you?     Yes,  a  thousand  times,  yes!" 

He  drew  her  closer.  "And  love  me — a 
little?" 

"Love  you?"  The  last  light  shone  upon 
her  face  and  the  colour  surged  back  in  waves. 
She  seemed  exalted,  transfigured,  as  by  a 
radiance  that  shone  from  within. 

He  put  his  hand  under  her  chin  and  lifted 
her  face  to  his.  "  Kiss  me,  won't  you,  dear?" 

And  so,  Rosemary  came  to  her  woman's 
birthright,  in  the  shelter  of  a  man's  arms. 


Ibouse  of  tbe  Broken  Ibeart 


THE  road  was  steep  and  very  dark,  but 
some  unseen  Power  compelled  her  to 
climb.  Dimly,  through  the  shadow,  she  saw 
shafts  of  broken  marbles  and  heard  the  sound 
of  slow-falling  waters.  The  desolation  op 
pressed  her,  and,  as  she  climbed,  she  pressed 
her  hands  tightly  to  her  heart. 

She  was  alone  in  an  empty  world.  All 
traces  of  human  occupation  had  long  since 
vanished.  Brambles  and  thorns  grew  thickly 
about  her,  and  her  brown  gingham  dress  was 
torn  to  shreds.  Rosemary  shuddered  in  her 
dream,  for  Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda 
would  be  displeased. 

And  yet,  where  were  they?  She  had  not 
seen  them  since  she  entered  the  darkness 
below.  At  first  she  had  been  unable  to  see 
anything,  for  the  darkness  was  not  merely 
absence  of  light  but  had  a  positive,  palpable 
quality,  It  enshrouded  her  as  by  heavy  folds 
of  black  velvet  that  suffocated  her,  but,  as  she 
climbed,  the  air  became  lighter  and  the  dark 
ness  less. 


62 


flDaster  of  tbe 


"Cbe  patb 
in  tbe 
Garden 


She  longed  to  stop  for  a  few  moments  and 
rest,  but  the  pitiless  Power  continually  urged 
her  on.  Bats  fluttered  past  her  and  ghostly 
wings  brushed  her  face,  but,  strangely,  she 
had  no  fear.  As  her  eyes  became  accustomed 
to  the  all-encompassing  night,  she  saw  into  it 
for  a  little  distance  on  either  side,  but  never 
ahead. 

On  the  left  was  a  vast,  empty  garden, 
neglected  and  dead.  The  hedge  that  sur 
rounded  it  was  only  a  tangled  mass  of  under 
growth,  and  the  paths  were  buried  and  choked 
by  weeds.  The  desolate  house  beyond  it 
loomed  up  whitely  in  the  shadow.  It  was 
damp  and  cold  in  the  garden,  but  she  went  in, 
mutely  obeying  the  blind  force  that  impelled 
her  to  go. 

She  struggled  up  the  path  that  led  to  the 
house,  falling  once  into  a  mass  of  thistles  that 
pricked  and  stung.  The  broken  marbles,  as 
she  saw  now,  were  statues  that  had  been 
placed  about  the  garden  and  had  fallen  into 
decay.  The  slow-falling  water  was  a  fountain 
that  still  murmured,  choked  though  it  was  by 
the  dense  undergrowth. 

One  of  the  steps  that  led  to  the  house  had 
fallen  inward,  so  she  put  her  knee  on  the  one 
above  that  and  climbed  up.  She  tested  each 
step  of  the  long  flight  carefully  before  she 
trusted  herself  to  it.  When  she  reached  the 
broad  porch,  her  footsteps  echoed  strangely 


Tfoouse  of  tbe  Brofeen  t>eart 


upon  the  floor.  Each  slight  sound  was  caught 
up  and  repeated  until  it  sounded  like  the 
tread  of  a  marching  army,  vanishing  into  the 
distance. 

The  heavy  door  creaked  on  its  hinges  when 
she  opened  it.  That  sound,  too,  echoed  and 
re-echoed  in  rhythmic  pulsations  that  beat 
painfully  upon  her  ears,  but,  after  she  was 
once  inside,  all  the  clamour  ceased. 

She  could  see  clearly  now,  though  it  was 
still  dark.  A  long,  wide  stairway  wound  up 
from  the  hall,  and  there  were  two  great  rooms 
upon  either  side.  She  turned  into  the  wide 
doorway  at  the  right. 

Windows,  grey  with  cobwebs,  stretched 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  but  very  little  light  came 
through  them.  The  wall  paper,  of  indis 
tinguishable  pattern,  was  partially  torn  from 
the  walls  and  the  hanging  portions  swayed 
in  the  same  current  of  air  that  waved  the 
cobwebs.  There  was  no  furniture  of  any  de 
scription  in  the  room,  except  the  heavy, 
gilt-framed  mirror  over  the  mantel.  It  was 
cracked  and  much  of  the  gilt  frame  had  fallen 
away.  She  went  into  the  next  room,  then 
into  the  one  beyond  that,  which  seemed  to 
stretch  across  the  back  of  the  house,  and  so 
through  the  door  at  the  left  of  the  room  into 
the  two  on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  at  the 
left  of  the  hall. 

In  the  centre  of  the  largest   room  was  a 


64  flDaster  ot  tbe 


small  table,  upon  which  rested  a  small  object 
covered  with  a  dome-shaped  glass  shade,  pre 
cisely  like  that  which  covered  the  basket  of 
wax  flowers  in  Grandmother's  parlour.  Rose 
mary  went  to  it  with  keen  interest  and  leaned 
over  the  table  to  peer  in. 

At  first  she  could  see  nothing,  for  the  glass 
was  cloudy.  She  noted,  with  a  pang  of  dis 
gust,  that  the  table-cover  was  made  of  brown 
alpaca,  fringed  all  around  by  the  fabric  itself, 
cut  unskilfully  into  shreds  with  the  scissors. 
As  she  looked,  the  glass  slowly  cleared. 

The  small  object  was  heart-shaped  and  made 
of  wax  in  some  dull  colour  half-way  between 
red  and  brown.  At  length  she  saw  that  it 
was  broken  and  the  pieces  had  been  laid 
together,  carefully.  Unless  she  had  looked 
very  closely  she  would  not  have  seen  that  it 
was  broken. 

Suddenly  she  felt  a  Presence  in  the  room, 
and  looked  up  quickly,  with  terror  clutching 
at  her  inmost  soul.  A  tall,  grey  figure,  mys 
teriously  shrouded,  stood  motionless  beside  her. 
Only  the  eyes  were  unveiled  and  visible  amid 
the  misty  folds  of  the  fabric. 

The  eyes  held  her  strangely.  They  were 
deep  and  dark  and  burning  with  secret  fires. 
Hunger  and  longing  were  in  their  depths,  and 
yet  there  was  a  certain  exaltation,  as  of  hope 
persisting  against  the  knowledge  of  defeat. 

Rosemary's  terror  gradually  vanished.    She 


tjouse  of  tbe  Broken  Ibeart 


felt  an  all-pervading  calmness,  a  sense  of 
acceptance,  of  fulfilment. 

For  a  long  time  she  stood  there,  transfixed 
by  the  eyes  that  never  for  an  instant  wavered 
from  hers.  They  searched  her  inmost  soul; 
they  saw  all  things  past  and  to  come.  They 
questioned  her,  challenged  her,  urged  some 
thing  upon  her,  and  yet  she  was  not  afraid. 

At  last,  with  dry  lips,  she  spoke.  "Who 
are  you?"  She  did  not  recognise  the  sound 
of  her  own  voice. 

"The  Lord  of  Life,"  the  figure  answered,  in 
low,  deep  tones  that  vibrated  through  the 
empty  rooms  like  the  swept  strings  of  a  harp. 

"And  this  is — ?" 

"The  House  of  the  Broken  Heart.  I  live 
here." 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Not  of  my  own  choice.  Why  have  you 
come?" 

"Not  of  my  own  choice,"  she  repeated, 
dully.  "  I  came  because  I  had  to." 

"They  all  do.  That  is  why  I  myself  am 
here." 

"Do — do  many  come?" 

"  Yes." 

Rosemary  looked  back  over  her  shoulder, 
then  lifted  her  eyes  to  those  of  the  grey 
figure.  "Then  it  is  strange,"  she  said,  "that 
I  am  here  alone." 

"You  are  not  alone.    These  rooms  are  full, 


66 


/faster  of  tbe 


Selfisb 
(Brief 


but  no  one  sees  another  in  the  House  of  the 
Broken  Heart.  Each  one  is  absorbed  in  his 
own  grief  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  Only  I 
may  see  them,  with  bowed  heads,  pacing  to 
and  fro. 

"On  the  stairway,"  he  went  on,  "is  a 
young  mother  who  has  lost  her  child.  She 
goes  up  and  down  endlessly,  thinking  first 
she  hears  it  crying  for  her  in  the  room  above, 
and  then  in  the  room  below.  Her  husband 
sits  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  his  face 
hidden  in  his  hands,  but  she  has  no  thought  for 
him.  He  has  lost  wife  and  child  too." 

"  Poor  man ! "  said  Rosemary,  softly.  "  Poor 
woman!" 

"Yonder  is  a  grey-haired  woman,  reaping 
the  bitterness  that  she  has  sown.  There  are  a 
husband  and  wife  who  have  always  been  jealous 
of  one  another,  and  will  be,  until  the  end  of 
time.  There  is  a  girl  who  has  trusted  and  been 
betrayed,  but  she  will  go  out  again  when  her 
courage  comes  back.  Just  behind*  you  is  a 
woman  who  has  estranged  her  husband  from 
his  family  and  has  found  his  heart  closed  to 
her  in  the  hour  of  her  greatest  need.  Coming 
toward  you  is  a  man  who  was  cruel  to  his  wife, 
and  never  knew  it  until  after  she  was  dead." 

"But,"  Rosemary  asked,  "is  there  no 
punishment?" 

"None  whatever,  except  this.  The  con 
sciousness  of  a  sin  is  its  own  punishment." 


Douse  of  tbc  JSrofeen  t>eart 


She  stood  there  perplexed,  leaning  against 
the  table.  "Have  all  who  are  here,  then, 
sinned?" 

"No,  some  have  been  sinned  against,  and 
a  few,  like  yourself,  have  come  in  by  mistake." 

"Then  I  may  go?" 

The  Lord  of  Life  bent  his  head  graciously. 
"Whenever  you  choose.  You  have  only  to 
take  your  gift  and  depart." 

"Is  there  a  gift  here  for  me?  Nobody  ever 
gave  me  anything." 

"Some  one  gift  is  yours  for  the  asking,  and, 
because  you  have  not  sinned,  you  have  the 
right  to  choose.  What  shall  it  be?" 

"Love,"  returned  Rosemary,  very  wist 
fully.  "Oh,  give  me  love!" 

The  Lord  of  Life  sighed.  "So  many  ask  for 
that,"  he  said.  "They  all  confuse  the  end 
with  the  means.  What  they  really  want  is 
joy,  but  they  ask  for  love." 

"Is  there  a  greater  joy  than  love?" 

"No,  but  love  in  itself  is  not  joy.  It  is  al 
ways  service  and  it  may  be  sacrifice.  It  means 
giving,  not  receiving;  asking,  not  answer." 

"None  the  less,"  said  Rosemary,  stubbornly, 
"  I  will  take  love." 

"They  all  do,"  he  returned.     "Wait." 

He  vanished  so  quickly  that  she  could  not 
tell  which  way  he  had  gone.  As  she  leaned 
against  the  table,  the  brown  alpaca  cover 
slipped  back  on  the  marble  table  and  the  glass 


68 


/toaster  of  tbe 


case  tottered.  She  caught  it  hurriedly  and 
saved  it  from  falling,  but  the  waxen  pieces  of 
the  heart  quivered  underneath. 

The  grey  figure  was  coming  back,  muffled 
to  the  eyes  as  before,  but  his  footsteps  made 
no  sound.  He  moved  slowly,  yet  with  a  cer 
tain  authority.  He  laid  a  letter  on  the  table 
and  Rosemary  snatched  it  up  eagerly.  It  was 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Virginia  Marsh. 

"That  is  not  for  me,"  she  said,  much  dis 
appointed.  "My  name  is  Rosemary  Starr." 

"It  must  have  something  to  do  with  you," 
he  returned,  unmoved.  "However,  I  will 
keep  it  until  the  owner  comes." 

"She  doesn't  belong  here,"  Rosemary 
answered,  somewhat  resentfully.  "She's  the 
dearest,  sweetest  woman  in  the  world.  She  's 
Alden's  mother." 

"The  one  who  wrote  it  may  be  here,  or 
coming,"  he  explained,  patiently.  "Some 
times  it  happens  that  way.  There  are  many 
letters  in  this  place." 

As  he  spoke,  he  placed  a  green  wreath  upon 
Rosemary's  head  and  gave  her  a  white  lily, 
on  a  long  stem.  "Go,"  he  said,  kindly. 

"But  my  gift?" 

"Go  and  find  it.  Carry  your  symbol  of 
Hope  and  wear  your  wreath  of  rue.  You  will 
come  to  it." 

"But  where?  How  shall  I  go  from  here? 
I  'm  afraid  I  shall  lose  my  way." 


ZTbe  Ifoouse  of  tbe  JSrofeen  Ibeart 

The  stern  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  her 
steadily.  "Do  not  question  Life  too  much," 
he  warned  her.  "Accept  it.  Have  I  not 
told  you  to  go?" 

Her  fear  suddenly  returned.  She  went 
backward,  slowly,  toward  the  door,  away  from 
the  table  and  the  tall  grey  figure  that  stood 
by  it,  holding  the  letter  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Virginia  Marsh.  When  she  was  outside,  she 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  It  was  daybreak, 
and  grey  lights  on  the  far  horizon  foreshadowed 
the  sunrise. 

She  ran  down  the  steps,  stumbling  as  she 
passed  the  broken  one,  and  went  hurriedly 
down  the  weed-choked  path.  The  broken 
marble  statues  were  green  with  mould  and  the 
falling  waters  seemed  to  move  with  difficulty, 
like  the  breath  of  one  about  to  die.  The  still 
ness  of  the  place  was  vast  and  far-reaching; 
it  encompassed  her  as  the  night  had  previously 
done. 

She  soon  found  the  trail  that  led  upward, 
though  she  did  not  recognise  the  point  at 
which  she  had  turned  into  the  garden.  She 
had  no  doubt,  now,  about  the  path  she  must 
take.  It  led  up,  up,  through  thorns  and 
brambles,  past  the  crags  upon  which  the  first 
light  shone,  and  around  the  crest  of  the  peak 
to — what?  Drawing  a  long  breath,  Rosemary 
started,  carrying  her  lily  and  wearing  her 
wreath  of  rue. 


70  /iDaster  of  tbe  IDi 


The  brown  gingham  hung  in  tatters  and  her 
worn  shoes  threatened  to  drop  from  her  feet, 
but  the  divine  fragrance  of  the  lily  she  bore 
sustained  her  as  she  climbed.  She  was  glad 
she  had  chosen  as  she  had,  though  his  words 
still  puzzled  her.  "It  is  always  service,"  she 
repeated,  "and  it  may  be  sacrifice.  It  means 
giving,  not  receiving;  asking,  not  answer." 

"And  yet,"  she  mused,  "he  said  they  all 
asked  for  it.  I  should  have  taken  the  letter," 
she  continued,  to  herself.  "Alden  could  have 
given  it  to  his  mother." 

It  seemed  strange  to  be  thinking  of  him  as 
"Alden"  instead  of  "Mr.  Marsh,"  and  yet  it 
was  supremely  sweet.  She  felt  the  colour 
burning  in  her  cheeks,  for  she  knew,  now, 
that  he  awaited  her,  somewhere  on  the  height. 
Had  he  not  chosen  Love  too?  Were  they  not 
to  find  it  together? 

Dull,  prismatic  fires  glowed  upon  the  distant 
clouds—  dawn-jewels  laid  upon  the  breast  of 
Night.  Violet  and  blue  mellowed  into  opal 
and  turquoise,  then,  as  the  spectrum  may 
merge  into  white  light,  a  shaft  of  sunrise 
broke  from  the  mysterious  East,  sending  a 
javelin  of  glory  half-way  across  the  world. 

The  first  light  lay  upon  the  crags,  then 
deepened  and  spread,  penetrating  the  darkness 
below,  which  was  no  longer  black,  but  dusky 
purple.  Rosemary's  heart  sang  as  she  climbed, 
and  the  fragrance  of  the  lily  thrilled  her  soul 


Ibouse  of  tbe  Brofeen  Ifoeart 


with  pure  delight.  The  path  was  smooth, 
now,  and  thorns  no  longer  hurt  her  feet. 
The  hand  that  held  the  lily,  however,  was 
bleeding,  from  some  sharp  thorn  or  projection 
of  rock. 

She  wiped  her  hand  upon  her  torn  dress, 
and,  as  she  did  so,  a  drop  of  blood  stained  the 
lily.  She  tried  to  get  it  off,  but  all  her  efforts 
were  fruitless.  The  crimson  spread  and  dark 
ened  until  half  of  the  white  petals  were  dyed. 
She  noted,  with  a  queer  lump  in  her  throat, 
that  the  lily  was  the  same  colour  as  the  waxen 
heart  that  lay  under  the  glass  case  in  the  house 
she  had  so  recently  left. 

But  she  still  held  it  tightly,  though  it  was 
stained  and  no  longer  fragrant.  Up  some 
where  in  the  sunrise  Alden  was  waiting  for  her, 
and  she  climbed  breathlessly.  She  was  ex 
hausted  when  she  reached  the  summit,  and 
the  wreath  of  rue  pressed  heavily  upon  her 
temples. 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  realising  that 
she  had  reached  the  end  of  her  journey.  Rain 
bow  mists  surrounded  the  height,  but,  as  she 
looked,  they  lifted.  She  was  not  surprised  to 
see  Alden  standing  there.  He  had  been  hidden 
by  the  mists. 

With  a  little  laugh  of  joy,  Rosemary  tried 
to  run  toward  him,  but  her  feet  refused  to 
move.  Then  she  called:  "Alden!"  and  again, 
in  a  troubled  tone:  "Mr.  Marsh!" 


Calling  in 
Uain 


But  only  the  echo  of  her  own  voice  came 
back  to  her,  for  Alden  did  not  move.  Strong 
and  finely-moulded,  his  youth  surrounded  him 
like  some  radiant  garment  of  immortality. 
Every  line  of  his  figure  was  eloquent  of  his 
lusty  manhood,  and  his  face  glowed  not  only 
from  the  sunrise,  but  from  some  inner  light. 

"Service,  sacrifice.  Giving,  not  receiving; 
asking,  not  answer."  The  words  reverber 
ated  through  her  consciousness  like  a  funeral 
knell.  She  dropped  the  stained  lily  and  called 
again,  weakly:  "Alden!" 

But,  as  before,  he  did  not  answer.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  distant  point  where 
the  coloured  mists  were  slowly  lifting.  Rose 
mary,  cold  and  still,  could  only  stand  there 
and  watch,  for  her  feet  refused  to  stir. 

Hungrily,  she  gazed  upon  him,  but  he  did 
not  see,  for  he  was  watching  the  drifting  rain 
bow  beyond.  Then  a  cry  of  rapture  broke 
from  him  and  he  started  eagerly  toward  the 
insurmountable  crags  that  divided  him  from 
the  Vision. 

Rosemary  saw  it,  too,  at  the  same  instant— 
a  woman  whose  white  gown  shimmered  and 
shone,  and  whose  face  was  hidden  by  the 
blinding  glory  of  her  sunlit  hair. 

She  woke,  murmuring  his  name,  then  rubbed 
her  eyes.  It  took  her  several  minutes  to  real 
ise  that  it  was  all  a  dream.  She  was  in  her 


Ibouse  of  tbe  36rofeen  Ibeart 


own  little  room  in  the  brown  house,  and  the 
sun  was  peeping  through  the  shutters.  The 
holes  in  the  rag  carpet,  the  cheap,  cracked 
mirror,  the  braided  mat  in  front  of  her  wash- 
stand,  and  the  broken  pitcher  all  contrived  to 
reassure  her. 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  knowing  that  it  was  time 
to  get  up,  but  desperately  needing  a  few 
moments  in  which  to  adjust  herself  to  her 
realities.  What  had  happened?  Nothing,  in 
deed,  since  yesterday — ah,  that  dear  yesterday, 
when  life  had  begun !  What  could  ever  happen 
now,  when  all  the  future  lay  fair  before  her 
and  the  miseries  of  her  twenty-five  years  were 
overwhelmed  by  one  deep  intoxicating  joy? 

"Dreams,"  thought  Rosemary,  laughing  to 
herself.  "Ah,  what  are  dreams!" 

She  opened  the  shutters  wide  and  the  day 
light  streamed  in.  It  was  not  fraught  with 
colour,  like  the  mists  of  her  dream,  but  was  the 
clear,  sane  light  of  every  day.  A  robin  outside 
her  window  chirped  cheerily,  and  a  bluebird 
flashed  across  the  distant  meadow,  then 
paused  on  the  rushes  at  the  bend  of  the  river 
and  swayed  there  for  a  moment,  like  some 
unfamiliar  flower. 

"Rosemary!"  The  shrill  voice  sounded  just 
outside  her  door. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Matilda,"  she  answered,  hap 
pily;  "  I  'm  coming!" 

She  sang  to  herself  as  she  moved  about  her 


74  /toaster  of  tbe  IDinesaro 


Service 
ant> 


room,  loving  the  dear,  common  things  of  every 
sacrifice  day — the  splash  of  cool  water  on  her  face  and 
throat,  the  patchwork  quilt,  and  even  the  de 
spised  brown  gingham,  which  was,  at  least, 
fresh  and  clean. 

"Service,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  sac 
rifice.  Giving,  not  receiving;  asking,  and  not 
answer.  I  wonder  if  it's  true!"  For  an 
instant  she  was  afraid,  then  her  soul  rallied  as 
to  a  bugle  call.  "  Even  so,"  she  thought,  "  I  '11 
take  it,  and  gladly.  I  '11  serve  and  sacrifice 
and  give,  and  never  mind  the  answer." 

She  hurried  downstairs,  where  the  others 
were  waiting.  "You're  late,  Rosemary," 
said  Grandmother,  sourly. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  laughed  the  girl,  stooping 
to  kiss  the  withered  cheek.  "I  'm  sorry!  I 
won't  let  it  happen  again!" 

Out  in  the  kitchen,  she  sang  as  she  worked, 
and  the  clatter  of  pots  and  pans  kept  up  a 
merry  accompaniment.  She  had  set  the  table 
the  night  before,  as  usual,  so  it  was  not  long 
before  she  had  breakfast  ready.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  her  eyes  were  shining  when 
she  came  in  with  the  oatmeal. 

"This  is  for  you,  Aunt  Matilda — it  isn't 
cooked  quite  so  much.  This  is  for  you,  Grand 
mother.  It's  nice  and  soft,  for  I  soaked  it 
over  night.  I  '11  have  the  eggs  ready  in  just 
a  minute." 

When  she  went  out,  the  other  two  exchanged 


ZTbe  Tbouse  of  tbe  JSroften  tbeart 


75 


glances.  "What,"  asked  Grandmother,  "do 
you  reckon  has  got  into  Rosemary?" 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  Aunt  Matilda, 
gloomily.  "Do  you  suppose  it 's  religion?" 

"  I  ain't  never  seen  religion  affect  anybody 
like  that,  have  you?" 

"No,  I  ain't,"  Aunt  Matilda  admitted,  after 
a  moment's  pondering. 

"She  reminds  me  of  her  ma,"  said  Grand 
mother,  reminiscently,  "  the  day  Frank  brought 
her  home." 


TObat  t>as 
fjappenefc? 


VI 


Bttew 

point  of 

View 


fIDore  Stately 


THE  new  joy  surged  in  every  heart-beat 
as  Rosemary  went  up  the  Hill  of  the 
Muses,  late  in  the  afternoon.  Instinctively, 
she  sought  the  place  of  fulfilment,  yearning 
to  be  alone  with  the  memory  of  yesterday. 

Nothing  was  wrong  in  all  the  world;  nothing 
ever  could  be  wrong  any  more.  She  accepted 
the  brown  alpaca  and  the  brown  gingham  as 
she  did  the  sordid  tasks  of  every  day.  That 
morning,  for  the  first  time,  it  had  been  a 
pleasure  to  wash  dishes  and  happiness  to 
build  a  fire. 

Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda  had  been 
annoyances  to  her  ever  since  she  could  remem 
ber.  Their  continual  nagging  had  fretted  her, 
their  constant  restraint  had  chafed  her,  their 
narrowness  had  cramped  her.  To-day  she 
saw  them  from  a  new  point  of  view. 

Grandmother  was  no  longer  a  malicious 
spirit  of  evil  who  took  delight  in  thwarting 
her,  but  a  poor,  fretful  old  lady  whose  soul 
was  bound  in  shallows.  And  Aunt  Matilda? 
Rosemary's  eyes  filled  at  the  thought  of  Aunt 


/iDore  Stately  flDansions 


Matilda,  unloved  and  unsought.  Nobody 
wanted  her,  she  belonged  to  nobody,  in  all  her 
lonely  life  she  had  had  nothing.  She  sat  and 
listened  to  Grandmother,  she  did  the  annual 
sewing,  and  day  by  day  resented  more  keenly 
the  emptiness  of  her  life.  It  was  the  conscious 
lack  that  made  them  both  cross.  Rosemary 
saw  it  now,  with  the  clear  vision  that  had 
come  to  her  during  the  past  twenty-four 
hours. 

She  wanted  to  be  very  kind  to  Grandmother 
and  Aunt  Matilda.  It  was  not  a  philanthropic 
resolution,  but  a  spontaneous  desire  to  share 
her  own  gladness,  and  to  lead  the  others,  if 
she  might,  from  the  chill  darkness  in  which 
they  dwelt  to  the  clear  air  of  the  heights. 

Oh,  but  it  was  good  to  be  alive!  The  little 
birds  that  hopped  from  bough  to  bough 
chirped  ecstatically,  the  nine  silver-clad  birches 
swayed  and  nodded  in  the  cool  wind,  and  the 
peaceful  river  in  the  valley  below  sparkled  and 
dimpled  at  the  caress  of  the  sun.  The  thou 
sand  sounds  and  fragrances  of  Spring  thrilled 
her  to  eager  answer;  she,  too,  aspired  and 
yearned  upward  as  the  wakened  grass-blades 
pierced  the  sod  and  the  violets  of  last  year 
dreamed  once  more  of  bloom. 

Yesterday  she  had  emerged  from  darkness 
into  light.  She  had  been  born  again  as  surely 
as  the  tiny  dweller  of  the  sea  casts  off  his  shell. 
The  outworn  habitation  of  the  past  was  for- 


/ffmster  of  tbe 


•Cbc 
Same,  JJct 
Different 


ever  left  behind  her,  to  be  swept  back,  by  the 
tides  of  the  new  life,  into  some  forgotten  cave. 

"  Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  oh  my  soul, 
As  the  swift  seasons  roll." 


The  words  said  themselves  aloud.  She  had 
learned  the  whole  poem  long  ago,  but,  to-day, 
the  beautiful  lines  assumed  a  fresh  significance, 
for  had  she  not,  by  a  single  step,  passed  from 
the  cell  of  self  into  comradeship  with  the  whole 
world?  Was  she  not  a  part  of  everything 
and  had  not  everything  become  a  part  of 
her?  What  could  go  wrong  when  the  finite 
was  once  merged  with  the  infinite,  the  individ 
ual  with  the  universal  soul? 

She  sat  down  on  the  log  that  Alden  had 
rolled  back  against  the  two  trees,  three  years 
ago,  when  they  had  first  begun  to  come  to  the 
Hill  of  the  Muses  for  an  occasional  hour  of 
friendly  talk.  Everything  was  the  same,  and 
yet  subtly  different,  as  though  seen  from 
another  aspect  or  in  another  light.  Over 
yonder,  on  the  hillside  farthest  from  the  valley, 
he  had  put  his  arm  around  her  and  refused  to 
let  her  go. 

She  remembered  vividly  every  word  and 
every  look  and  that  first  shy  kiss.  Of  course 
they  belonged  together!  How  foolish  they 
had  been  not  to  see  it  before!  Was  she  not 
the  only  woman  he  knew,  and  was  he  not  the 


jflDore  Stately  flDansions 


79 


only  man  to  whom  she  could  say  more  than 
"How  do  you  do?"  God  had  meant  it  so 
from  the  beginning,  ever  since  He  said:  "Let 
there  be  light,  and  there  was  light." 

Dreaming  happily,  Rosemary  sat  on  the 
fallen  tree,  leaning  against  the  great  oak  that 
towered  above  her.  The  first  pink  leaves  had 
come  out  upon  the  brown  branches,  and 
through  them  she  could  see  the  blue  sky,  deep 
as  turquoise,  without  a  single  cloud.  It 
seemed  that  she  had  always  been  happy,  but 
had  never  known  it  until  this  new  light  shone 
upon  her,  flooding  with  divine  radiance  every 
darkened  recess  of  her  soul. 

She  went  to  the  hollow  tree,  took  out  the 
wooden  box,  and  unwound  the  scarlet  ribbon. 
Yesterday,  little  dreaming  of  the  portent  that 
for  once  accompanied  the  signal,  she  had  tied 
it  in  its  accustomed  place,  and  gone  back, 
calmly  to  wait.  The  school  bell  echoed  through 
the  valley  as  she  stood  there,  her  eyes  laugh 
ing,  but  her  mouth  very  grave.  She  had 
taken  two  or  three  steps  toward  the  birches 
when  an  unwonted  shyness  possessed  her,  and 
she  hurried  back. 

"I  can't,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Oh,  I 
can't — to-day!" 

So  she  restored  it  to  its  place,  wondering, 
as  she  did  so,  why  love  should  make  such 
mysterious  changes  in  the  common  things  of 
every  day.  Won  and  awakened  though  she 


Bn 
Tflnwontefc 

Sbgnegs 


/toaster  ot  tbe 


TOaftfn.j  was,  her  womanhood  imperatively  demanded 
now  that  she  must  be  sought  and  never  seek, 
that  she  must  not  even  beckon  him  to  her,  and 
that  she  must  wait,  according  to  her  destiny, 
as  women  have  waited  since  the  world  began. 

Yet  it  was  part  of  the  beautiful  magic  of  the 
day  that  presently  he  should  come  to  her, 
unsummoned  save  by  her  longing  and  his 
own  desire. 

"Where  is  the  ribbon?"  he  inquired,  re 
proachfully,  when  he  came  within  speaking 
distance. 

"Where  it  belongs,"  she  answered,  with  a 
flush. 

"Did  n't  you  want  me  to  come?" 

"Of  course." 

"Then  why  did  n't  you  hang  it  up?" 

"Just  because  I  wanted  you  to  come." 

Alden  laughed  at  her  feminine  inconsistency, 
as  he  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and 
kissed  her,  half-shyly  still.  "Did  you  sleep 
last  night?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  but  I  had  a  horrible  dream.  I  was 
glad  to  wake  up  this  morning." 

"I  didn't  sleep,  so  all  my  dreams  were 
wakeful  ones.  You  're  not  sorry,  are  you, 
Rosemary?" 

"No,  indeed!    How  could  I  ever  be  sorry?" 

"You  never  shall  be,  if  I  can  help  it.  I 
want  to  be  good  to  you,  dear.  If  I  'm  ever 
otherwise,  you  '11  tell  me  so,  won't  you?" 


/IDore  Stately  flDansfons 


"Perhaps — I  won't  promise." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,  even  if  you  were  n't  good  to  me, 
I  'd  know  you  never  meant  it."  Rosemary's 
eyes  were  grave  and  sweet;  eloquent,  as  they 
were,  of  her  perfect  trust  in  him. 

He  laughed  again.  "  I  'd  be  a  brute  not 
to  be  good  to  you,  whether  I  meant  it  or 
not." 

"That  sounds  twisted,"  she  commented, 
with  a  smile. 

"But  it  is  n't,  as  long  as  you  know  what  I 
mean." 

"I'll  always  know,"  sighed  Rosemary, 
blissfully  leaning  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 
"  I  '11  always  understand  and  I  '11  never  fail 
you.  That 's  because  I  love  you  better  than 
everything  else  in  the  world." 

"Dear  little  saint,"  he  murmured;  "you're 
too  good  for  me." 

"No,  I  'm  not.  On  the  contrary,  I  'm  not 
half  good  enough."  Then,  after  a  pause,  she 
asked  the  old,  old  question,  first  always  from 
the  lips  of  the  woman  beloved:  "When  did 
you  begin  to — care?" 

"I  must  have  cared  when  we  first  began  to 
come  here,  only  I  was  so  blind  I  did  n't  know 
it." 

"When  did  you — know?" 

"Yesterday.  I  didn't  keep  it  to  myself 
very  long." 


82 


Dear  yesterday !    she  breathed,  half  regret- 

SballUt       .  ,,  J  J 

fully. 

"Do  you  want  it  back?" 

She  turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  him. 
"Why  should  I  want  yesterday  when  I  have 
to-day?" 

"And  to-morrow,"  he  supplemented,  "and 
all  the  to-morrows  to  come." 

"Together,"  she  said,  with  a  swift  realisation 
of  the  sweetness  underlying  the  word.  "  Yes 
terday  was  perfect,  like  a  jewel  that  we  can 
put  away  and  keep.  When  we  want  to,  we  can 
always  go  back  and  look  at  it." 

"No,  dear,"  he  returned,  soberly;  "no  one 
can  ever  go  back  to  yesterday."  Then,  with 
a  swift  change  of  mood,  he  asked:  "When  shall 
we  be  married?" 

"Whenever  you  like,"  she  whispered,  her 
eyes  downcast  and  her  colour  receding. 

"In  the  Fall,  then,  when  the  grapes  have 
been  gathered  and  just  before  school  begins?" 

He  could  scarcely  hear  her  murmured: 
"Yes." 

"  I  want  to  take  you  to  town  and  let  you 
see  things.  Theatres,  concerts,  operas,  parks, 
shops,  art  galleries,  everything.  If  the  crop  is 
in  early,  we  should  be  able  to  have  two  weeks. 
Do  you  think  you  could  crowd  all  the  lost 
opportunities  of  a  lifetime  into  two  weeks?" 

"Into  a  day,  with  you." 

He  drew  her  closer.    This  sort  of  thing  was 


flDore  Stately  flDansions 


very  sweet  to  him,  and  the  girl's  dull  person 
ality  had  bloomed  like  some  pale,  delicate 
flower.  He  saw  unfathomed  depths  in  her 
grey  eyes,  shining  now,  with  the  indescribable 
light  that  comes  from  within.  She  had  been 
negative  and  colourless,  but  now  she  was  a 
lovely  mystery — a  half-blown  windflower  on 
some  brown,  bare  hillside,  where  Life,  in  all  its 
fulness,  was  yet  to  come. 

"Did  you  tell  your  Grandmother  and  Aunt 
Matilda?" 

"No.     How  could  I?" 

"  You  'd  better  not.  They  'd  only  make  it 
hard  for  you,  and  I  would  n't  be  allowed  in  the 
parlour  anyway." 

Rosemary  had  not  thought  of  that.  It  was 
only  that  her  beautiful  secret  was  too  sacred 
to  put  into  words.  "They  '11  have  to  know 
some  time,"  she  temporised. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  but  not  until  the  last  minute. 
The  day  we  're  to  be  married,  you  can  just 
put  on  your  hat  and  say:  'Grandmother,  and 
Aunty,  I  'm  going  out  now,  to  be  married  to 
Alden  Marsh.  1  shan't  be  back,  so  good-bye." 

She  laughed,  but  none  the  less  the  idea  filled 
her  with  consternation.  "What  will  they 


say 


"  she  exclaimed. 


"It  does  n't  matter  what  they  say,  as  long 
as  you  're  not  there  to  hear  it." 

"Clothes,"  she  said,  half  to  herself.  "I 
can't  be  married  in  brown  alpaca,  can  I?" 


84 


flDaster  of  tbe  IDine^aro 


"I  don't  know  why  not.  We'll  take  the 
;';  fatal  step  as  early  as  possible  in  the  morning, 
catch  the  first  train  to  town,  you  can  shop  all 
the  afternoon  to  your  heart's  content,  and  be 
dressed  like  a  fine  lady  in  time  for  dinner  in  the 
evening." 

"Grandmother  was  married  in  brown  al 
paca,"  she  continued,  irrelevantly,  "and 
Aunt  Matilda  wore  it  the  night  the  minister 
came  to  call." 

"Did  he  never  come  again?" 

"No.  Do  you  think  it  could  have  been  the 
alpaca?" 

"I'm  sure  it  wasn't.  Aunt  Matilda  was 
foreordained  to  be  an  old  maid." 

"She  won't  allow  anyone  to  speak  of  her 
as  an  old  maid.  She  says  she  's  a  spinster." 

"What 's  the  difference?" 

"I  think,"  returned  Rosemary,  pensively, 
"  that  an  old  maid  is  a  woman  who  never  could 
have  married  and  a  spinster  is  merely  one  who 
has  n't." 

"Is  it  a  question  of  opportunity?" 

"  I  believe  so." 

"Then  you  're  wrong,  because  some  of  the 
worst  old  maids  I  've  ever  known  have  been 
married  women.  I  've  seen  men,  too,  who 
deserve  the  title." 

"Poor  Aunt  Matilda,"  Rosemary  sighed; 
"  I  'm  sorry  for  her." 

"Why?" 


/Bore  Stately  ADansfons 


"Because  she  hasn't  anyone  to  love  her — 
because  she  has  n't  you.  I  'm  sorry  for  every 
other  woman  in  the  world,"  she  concluded, 
generously,  "because  I  have  you  all  to 
myself." 

"Sweet,"  he  answered,  possessing  himself 
of  her  hand,  "don't  forget  that  you  must 
divide  me  with  mother." 

"I  won't.  Will  she  care,  do  you  think, 
because—  Her  voice  trailed  off  into  an  indis 
tinct  murmur. 

"Of  course  not.  She's  glad.  I  told  her 
this  morning." 

"Oh!"  cried  Rosemary,  suddenly  tremulous 
and  afraid.  "What  did  she  say?" 

"She  was  surprised  at  first."  Alden  care 
fully  refrained  from  saying  how  much  his 
mother  had  been  surprised  and  how  long  it  had 
been  before  she  found  herself  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

"Yes— and  then?" 

"Then  she  said  she  was  glad;  that  she 
wanted  me  to  be  happy.  She  told  me  that 
she  had  always  liked  you  and  that  the  house 
would  n't  be  so  lonely  after  you  came  to  live 
with  us.  Then  she  asked  me  to  bring  you  to  see 
her,  as  soon  as  you  were  ready  to  come." 

The  full  tide  overflowed  in  the  girl's  heart. 
She  yearned  toward  Mrs.  Marsh  with  worship, 
adoration,  love.  The  mother-hunger  made  her 
faint  with  longing  for  a  woman's  arms  around 


86 


/Caster  of  tbe 


flDaCame's 
TOlclcome 


her,  for  a  woman's  tears  of  joy  to  mingle  with 
her  own. 

"Take  me  to  her,"  Rosemary  pleaded. 
"Take  me  now!" 

Madame  saw  them  coming  and  went  to  the 
door  to  meet  them.  Rosemary  was  not  at  all 
what  she  had  fancied  in  the  way  of  a  daughter- 
in-law,  but,  wisely,  she  determined  to  make 
the  best  of  Alden's  choice.  Something  in  her 
stirred  in  answer  to  the  infinite  appeal  in  the 
girl's  eyes.  At  the  crowning  moment  of  her 
life,  Rosemary  stood  alone,  fatherless,  mother 
less,  friendless,  with  only  brown  alpaca  to  take 
the  place  of  all  the  pretty  things  that  seem 
girlhood's  right. 

Madame  smiled,  then  opened  her  arms. 
Without  a  word,  Rosemary  went  to  her,  laid 
her  head  upon  the  sweet,  silken  softness  of  the 
old  lady's  shoulder,  and  began  to  cry  softly. 

"Daughter,"  whispered  Madame,  holding 
her  close.  "My  dear  daughter!  Please 
don't!" 

Rosemary  laughed  through  her  tears,  then 
wiped  her  eyes.  "It's  only  an  April  rain," 
she  said.  "  I  'm  crying  because  I  'm  so 
happy." 

"I  wish,"  responded  Madame,  gently,  with 
a  glance  at  her  son,  "  that  I  might  be  sure  all 
the  tears  either  of  you  are  ever  to  shed  would 
be  tears  of  joy.  It's  the  bitterness  that 
hurts." 


Stately  Mansions 


"Don't  be  pessimistic,  Mother,"  said  Alden, 
with  a  little  break  in  his  voice.  Rosemary's 
tears  woke  all  his  tenderness.  He  longed  to 
shield  and  shelter  her;  to  stand,  if  he  might, 
between  her  and  the  thousand  pricks  and 
stabs  of  the  world. 

"We'll  have  tea,"  Madame  went  on, 
brightly,  ringing  a  silver  bell  as  she  spoke. 
"Then  we  shan't  be  quite  so  serious." 

"Woman's  inevitable  solace,"  Alden  ob 
served,  lounging  about  the  room  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  Man-like,  he  welcomed  the 
change  of  mood. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  continued,  with  forced 
cheerfulness,  "why  people  always  cry  at 
weddings  and  engagements  and  such  things? 
A  husband  or  wife  is  the  only  relative  we  are 
permitted  to  choose — we  even  have  very  little 
to  say  when  it  comes  to  a  mother-in-law. 
With  parents,  brothers,  sisters,  uncles,  aunts, 
and  cousins  all  provided  by  a  generous  but 
sometimes  indiscriminating  Fate,  it  seems 
hard  that  one's  only  choice  should  be  made 
unpleasant  by  salt  water. 

"Why,"  he  went  on,  warming  to  his  sub 
ject,  "  I  remember  how  a  certain  woman 
angled  industriously  for  months  to  capture  an 
unsuspecting  young  man  for  her  daughter. 
When  she  finally  landed  him,  and  the  cere 
mony  came  off  to  the  usual  accompaniment 
of  Mendelssohn  and  a  crowded  church,  I 


88 


faster  ot  tbe  tflineparfc 


B 

Contrast 


feared  that  the  bridal  couple  might  have  to 
come  down  the  aisle  from  the  altar  in  a  canoe, 
on  account  of  the  maternal  tears." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Rosemary,  timidly, 
"she  was  only  crying  because  she  was  happy." 

"If  she  was  as  happy  as  all  those  tears 
would  indicate,  it 's  a  blessed  wonder  she 
did  n't  burst." 

Madame  smiled  fondly  at  her  son  as  she 
busied  herself  with  the  tea  things.  Rosemary 
watched  the  white,  plump  hands  that  moved 
so  gracefully  among  the  cups,  and  her  heart 
contracted  with  a  swift  little  pang  of  envy,  of 
which  she  was  immediately  ashamed.  Uncon 
sciously,  she  glanced  at  her  own  rough,  red 
hands.  Madame  saw  the  look,  and  under 
stood. 

"We'll  soon  fix  them,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
kindly.  "  I  '11  show  you  how  to  take  care  of 
them." 

"Really?"  cried  Rosemary,  gratefully. 
"Oh,  thank  you!  Do  you  suppose  that— 
that  they  '11  ever  look  like  yours?" 

"Wait  and  see,"  Madame  temporised.  She 
was  fond  of  saying  that  it  took  three  genera 
tions  of  breeding  to  produce  the  hand  of  a 
lady. 

The  kettle  began  to  sing  and  the  cover 
danced  cheerily.  Tiny  clouds  of  steam  trailed 
off  into  space,  disappearing  in  the  late  after 
noon  sunshine  like  a  wraith  at  dawn.  Madame 


/iDore  Statelg  Mansions 


filled  the  blue  china  tea-pot  and  the  subtle 
fragrance  permeated  the  room. 

"Think,"  she  said,  as  she  waited  the  allotted 
five  minutes  for  it  to  steep,  "of  all  I  give  you 
in  a  cup  of  tea.  See  the  spicy,  sunlit  fields, 
where  men,  women,  and  children,  in  little 
jackets  of  faded  blue,  pick  it  while  their 
queues  bob  back  and  forth.  Think  of  all  the 
chatter  that  goes  in  with  the  picking — marriage 
and  birth  and  death  and  talk  of  houses  and 
worldly  possessions,  and  everything  else  that 
we  speak  of  here. 

"Then  the  long,  sweet  drying,  and  the  pack 
ing  in  dim  storehouses,  and  then  the  long 
journey.  Sand  and  heat  and  purple  dusk, 
tinkle  of  bells  and  scent  of  myrrh,  the  rustle  of 
silks  and  the  gleam  of  gold.  Then  the 
open  sea,  with  infinite  spaces  of  shining 
blue,  and  a  wake  of  pearl  and  silver  follow 
ing  the  ship.  Dreams  and  moonbeams  and 
starry  twilights,  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world — here,  my  dear,  I  give  them  all  to 
you." 

She  offered  Rosemary  the  cup  as  she  con 
cluded  and  the  girl  smiled  back  at  her  happily. 
This  was  all  so  different  from  the  battered 
metal  tea-pot  that  always  stood  on  the  back 
of  the  stove  at  Grandmother's,  to  be  boiled 
and  re-boiled  until  the  colour  was  gone  from 
the  leaves.  Alden  was  looking  into  his  cup 
with  assumed  anxiety. 


flDaster  of  tbe  lt)fne$ar& 


In  tbe 

Sottom  of 

tbe  Cup 


"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  asked  his 
mother.  "  Is  n't  it  right?" 

"I  was  looking  for  the  poem,"  he  laughed, 
"and  I  see  nothing  but  a  stranger." 

"Coming?"  she  asked,  idly. 

"Of  course.    See?" 

"  You  're  right — a  stranger  and  trouble. 
What  is  there  in  your  cup,  Rosemary?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  she  answered,  with  a 
smile,  "but  a  little  bit  of  sugar — just  a  few 
grains." 

Alden  came  and  looked  over  her  shoulder. 
Then,  with  his  arm  over  the  back  of  her  chair, 
he  pressed  his  cheek  to  hers.  "I  hope,  my 
dear,  that  whenever  you  come  to  the  dregs, 
you  '11  always  have  that  much  sweetness  left." 

Rosemary,  flushed  and  embarrassed,  made 
her  adieus  awkwardly.  "Come  again  very 
soon,  dear,  won't  you?"  asked  Madame. 

"Yes,  indeed,  if  I  may,  and  thank  you  so 
much.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Marsh." 

"'Mrs.  Marsh?'"  repeated  the  old  lady, 
reproachfully.  Some  memory  of  her  lost  Vir 
ginia  made  her  very  tender  toward  the  mother 
less  girl. 

"May  I?"  Rosemary  faltered.  "Do  you 
mean  it?" 

Madame  smiled  and  lifted  her  beautiful 
old  face.  Rosemary  stooped  and  kissed  her. 
"Mother,"  she  said,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life.  "Dear  Mother!  Good-bye!" 


VII 

a  letter  ant)  a  (Bueet 

"  A   LETTER  for  you,  Mother."    Alden  tossed 

f~\     a.  violet-scented  envelope  into  the  old 

lady's  lap  as  he  spoke,  and  stood  there,  waiting. 

"For  me!"  she  exclaimed.  Letters  for 
either  of  them  were  infrequent.  She  took  it 
up  curiously,  scrutinised  the  address,  sniffed 
at  the  fragrance  the  missive  carried,  noted 
the  postmark,  which  was  that  of  the  town 
near  by,  and  studied  the  waxen  purple  seal, 
stamped  with  indistinguishable  initials. 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  whom  it's 
from,"  she  said,  helplessly. 

"Why  not  open  it  and  see?"  he  suggested, 
with  kindly  sarcasm.  His  assumed  careless 
ness  scarcely  veiled  his  own  interest  in  it. 

"You  always  were  a  bright  boy,  Alden," 
she  laughed.  Another  woman  might  have 
torn  it  open  rudely,  but  Madame  searched 
through  her  old  mahogany  desk  until  she 
found  a  tarnished  silver  letter-opener,  thus 
according  due  courtesy  to  her  unknown 
correspondent. 

Having  opened  it,  she  discovered  that  she 


flDaster  of  tbe  IDineparfc 


B 
TKHoman'6 

Writing 


could  not  read  the  handwriting,  which  was 
angular  and  involved  beyond  the  power  of 
words  to  indicate. 

"Here,"  she  said.  "Your  eyes  are  better 
than  mine." 

Alden  took  it  readily.  "My  eyes  may  be 
good,"  he  observed,  after  a  long  pause,  "but 
my  detective  powers  are  not.  The  m's  and  n's 
are  all  alike,  and  so  are  most  of  the  other  letters. 
She  's  an  economical  person — she  makes  the 
same  hieroglyphic  do  duty  for  both  a  g  and 
ay." 

"It's  from  a  woman,  then?" 

"Certainly.  Did  you  ever  know  a  man  to 
sprawl  a  note  all  over  two  sheets  of  paper, 
with  nothing  to  distinguish  the  end  from  the 
beginning?  In  the  nature  of  things,  you  'd 
expect  her  to  commence  at  the  top  of  a  sheet, 
and,  in  a  careless  moment,  she  may  have  done 
so.  Let  me  see — yes,  here  it  is:  'My  dear 
Mrs.  Marsh.' " 

"Go  on,  please,"  begged  Madame,  after  a 
silence.  "It  was  just  beginning  to  be  inter 
esting." 

"'During  my  mother's  last  illness/"  Alden 
read,  with  difficulty,  "'she  told  me  that  if  I 
were  ever  in  trouble,  I  should  go  to  you — that 
you  would  stand  in  her  place  to  me.  I  write 
to  ask  if  I  may  come,  for  I  can  no  longer  see 
the  path  ahead  of  me,  and  much  less  do  I  know 
the  way  in  which  I  should  go. 


H  OLetter  anfc  a  Guest 


"You  surely  remember  her.  She  was 
Louise  Lane  before  her  marriage  to  my  father, 
Edward  Archer. 

'"Please  send  me  a  line  or  two,  telling  me 
I  may  come,  if  only  for  a  day.  Believe  me, 
no  woman  ever  needed  a  friendly  hand  to 
guide  her  more  than 

"  'Yours  unhappily, 

'"EDITH  ARCHER  LEE." 

"Louise  Lane,"  murmured  Madame,  remi- 
niscently.  "My  old  schoolmate!  1  did  n't  even 
know  that  she  had  a  daughter,  or  that  she  was 
dead.  How  strangely  we  lose  track  of  one 
another  in  this  world!" 

"Yes?"  said  Alden,  encouragingly. 

"Louise  was  a  beautiful  girl,"  continued 
Madame,  half  to  herself.  "She  had  big  brown 
eyes,  with  long  lashes,  a  thick,  creamy  skin 
that  someway  reminded  you  of  white  rose- 
petals,  and  the  most  glorious  red  hair  you  ever 
saw.  She  married  an  actor,  and  I  heard 
indirectly  that  she  had  gone  on  the  stage,  then 
I  lost  her  entirely." 

"Yes?"  said  Alden,  again. 

"Edith  Archer  Lee,"  Madame  went  on. 
"She  must  be  married.  Think  of  Louise  Lane 
having  a  daughter  old  enough  to  be  married! 
And  yet — my  Virginia  would  have  been 
thirty-two  now.  Dear  me,  how  the  time 
goes  by!" 


94 


faster  of  tbe 


The  tall  clock  on  the  landing  chimed  five 
deep,  musical  strokes,  the  canary  hopped  rest 
lessly  about  his  gilt  cage,  and  the  last  light  of 
the  sweet  Spring  afternoon,  searching  the  soft 
shadows  of  the  room,  found  the  crystal  ball 
on  the  table  and  made  merry  with  it. 

"Time  is  still  going  by,"  Alden  reminded 
her.  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Madame  started  from  her  reverie.  "Do? 
Why,  she  must  come,  of  course!" 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  Alden  objected,  gloomily. 
"I  don't  like  strange  women." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  what  we  like  or  don't 
like,  my  son,"  she  returned,  in  gentle  reproof. 
"She  is  in  trouble  and  she  needs  something  we 
can  give  her." 

"When  people  are  in  trouble,  they  usually 
want  either  money  or  sympathy,  or  both." 

"Sometimes  they  only  need  advice." 

"There  are  lots  of  places  where  they  can  get 
it.  Advice  is  as  free  as  salvation  is  said  to  be." 

Madame  sighed.  Then  she  crossed  the 
room,  and  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 
"Dear,  are  you  going  to  be  cross?" 

His  face  softened.  "Never  to  you,  if  I 
know  it,  but  why  should  strange  women  invade 
the  peace  of  a  man's  home?  Why  should  a 
woman  who  writes  like  that  come  here?" 

"Don't  blame  her  for  her  handwriting — she 
can't  help  it." 

"I  don't  blame  her;  far  from  it.    On  the 


H  OLetter  an&  a  Guest 


contrary,  I  take  off  my  hat  to  her.  A  woman 
who  can  take  a  plain  pen,  and  plain  ink,  and 
do  such  dazzling  wonders  on  plain  paper,  is 
entitled  to  sincere  respect,  if  not  admiration." 

Smiling,  Madame  went  to  her  desk,  and  in 
a  quaint,  old-fashioned  script,  wrote  a  note  to 
Mrs.  Lee.  "There,"  she  said,  as  she  sealed  it. 
"I  've  asked  her  to  come  to-morrow  on  the  six 
o'clock  train.  I  've  told  her  that  you  will  meet 
her  at  the  station,  and  that  we  won't  have 
dinner  until  half-past  seven.  That  will  give 
her  time  to  rest  and  dress.  If  you  '11  take  it 
to  the  post-office  now,  she  '11  get  it  in  the 
morning." 

Alden  shrugged  his  shoulders  good-humour- 
edly,  kissed  his  mother,  and  went  out.  He 
wondered  how  he  would  recognise  the  "strange 
woman"  when  she  arrived  on  the  morrow, 
though  few  people  came  on  the  six  o'clock 
train,  or,  for  that  matter,  on  any  train. 

"Might  write  her  a  little  note  on  my  own 
account,"  he  mused.  "Ask  her  to  take  off 
her  right  shoe  and  hold  it  in  her  left  hand,  or 
something  of  that  sort.  No,  that  is  n't  neces 
sary.  I  '11  bet  I  could  go  into  a  crowd  of  a 
thousand  women  and  pick  out  the  one  who 
wrote  that  letter." 

The  scent  of  violet  still  haunted  him,  but, 
by  the  time  he  had  posted  his  mother's  note, 
he  had  forgotten  all  about  it  and  was  thinking 
of  Rosemary. 


96  flDaster  of  tbe 


planning        Madame,  however,  was  busy  with  plans  for 

for  tbe        .  ,         '       .  ,,ii 

(5Uegt  her  guest  s  comfort.  She  took  down  her  best 
hand-embroidered  linen  sheets,  shaking  out 
the  lavender  that  was  laid  between  the  folds, 
selected  her  finest  towels  and  dresser-covers, 
ransacked  three  or  four  trunks  in  the  attic  for 
an  old  picture  of  Louise  Lane,  found  a  frame 
to  fit  it,  laid  out  fresh  curtains,  had  the 
shining  silver  candlesticks  cleaned  again, 
and  opened  wide  every  window  of  the  long- 
unused  guest-room  to  give  it  a  night's 
airing. 

Downstairs,  she  searched  through  the  pre 
serve-closet  for  dainties  to  tempt  an  unhappy 
woman's  appetite,  meanwhile  rejoicing  with 
housewifely  pride  in  her  well-stocked  shelves. 
That  evening,  while  Alden  read  the  paper,  she 
planned  a  feast  for  the  next  night,  and  mended, 
with  fairy-like  stitches,  the  fichu  of  real  lace 
that  she  usually  wore  with  her  lavender  silk 
gown. 

"Is  it  a  party?"  queried  Alden,  without 
looking  up  from  his  paper. 

"  Yes.     Is  n't  company  a  party?" 

"That  depends.  You  know  three  are  said 
to  be  a  crowd." 

"Still  inhospitable,  dear?" 

"Only  mildly  so.  I  contemplate  the  ap 
proaching  evil  with  resignation,  if  not  content." 

"You  and  I  have  lived  alone  so  long  that 
we  've  got  ourselves  into  a  rut.  Everyone 


H  Xetter  an&  a  (Buest 


97 


we  meet  may  give  us  something,  and  receive 
something  from  us  in  return." 

"  I  perceive,"  said  Alden,  irrelevantly,  "that 
the  Lady  Mother  is  going  to  be  dressed  in  her 
best  when  the  guest  arrives." 

A  pale  pink  flush  mantled  the  old  lady's  fair 
cheeks.  At  the  moment  she  looked  like  a 
faded  rose  that  had  somehow  preserved  its 
sweetness. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

"Why  do  we  always  do  for  strangers  what 
we  do  not  willingly  do  for  our  own  flesh  and 
blood?"  he  queried,  philosophically.  "You 
love  me  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world, 
yet  you  would  n't  put  on  that  lavender  gown 
twice  a  year,  just  for  me  alone.  The  strange 
woman  may  feast  her  eyes  upon  it  the  moment 
she  enters  the  house.  She  '11  eat  from  the  best 
china,  sleep  between  embroidered  sheets,  and, 
I  have  no  doubt,  drink  the  wine  that  Father 
put  away  the  day  I  was  born,  to  be  opened  at 
my  wedding." 

"Not  at  your  wedding,  my  son,  but  the  day 
you  found  the  woman  you  loved."  Then, 
after  a  long  pause,  she  added,  shyly: 
"Should  n't  it  be  opened  now?" 

"It'll  keep,"  the  young  man  grunted. 
"After  lying  for  thirty  years  among  the  cob 
webs,  a  few  more  weeks  or  months  or  years,  as 
the  case  may  be,  won't  hurt  it.  Besides,  I 
don't  expect  to  have  any  wedding.  I  'm 


Xest 

Cbingsfoc 
Strangers 


98 


flDaster  ot  tbe 


merely  going  to  be  married.  Might  as  well  let 
the  strange  woman  have  it." 

Alden's  father  had,  as  he  said,  put  away  on 
the  day  he  was  born  all  the  wine  that  was  then 
ready  to  be  bottled.  The  baby  girl  had  been 
welcomed  gladly,  especially  as  she  had  her 
mother's  eyes,  but  the  day  the  second  Alden 
Marsh  was  born,  the  young  father's  joy  had 
known  no  bounds.  He  had  gone,  at  dusk,  to 
the  pale  little  mother,  and,  holding  her  in  his 
arms,  had  told  her  about  the  wine. 

"I  've  put  it  all  away,"  he  had  said,  "for 
the  boy.  He  's  to  open  it  the  day  he  finds  the 
woman  he  loves  as  I  love  you." 

The  shelf  in  the  storeroom,  where  he  had 
placed  it,  had  never  been  disturbed,  though 
dust  and  cobwebs  lay  thickly  upon  it  and 
Madame  had  always  prided  herself  upon  her 
immaculate  housekeeping.  It  grieved  her 
inexpressibly  because  Alden  cared  so  little 
about  it,  and  had  for  it,  apparently,  no  senti 
ment  at  all.  To  her  it  was  sacred,  like  some 
rare  wine  laid  aside  for  communion,  but,  as  she 
reflected,  the  boy's  father  had  died  before  he 
was  much  more  than  a  child. 

"Don't  you  remember  your  father  at  all?" 
asked  Madame,  with  a  sigh. 

"I  can't  say  that  I  do — that  is,  not  before 
he  died."  The  casket  and  the  gloom  of  mourn 
ing  had  made  its  own  vivid  impression  upon 
the  child's  sensitive  mind.  One  moment  stood 


H  OLetter  anfc  a  Ouest 


99 


out  quite  clearly,  but  he  forebore  to  say  so. 
It  was  when  his  mother,  with  the  tears  raining 
down  her  face,  had  lifted  him  in  her  arms  and 
bade  him  look  at  the  man  who  lay  in  the  casket, 
oh,  so  cold  and  still. 

"Say  good-bye  to  Father,  dear,"  she  had 
sobbed.  "Is  Father  gone  away?"  he  had 
asked,  in  childish  terror,  then  she  had  strained 
him  to  her  heart,  crying  out:  "Just  for  a  little 
while!  Oh,  if  I  could  only  believe  it  was  for 
just  a  little  while!" 

The  rest  had  faded  into  a  mist  of  sadness 
that,  for  a  long  time,  had  not  even  begun  to 
lift.  When  he  found  his  mother  in  tears,  as 
he  often  did  after  that,  he  went  away  quietly, 
knowing  that  she  longed  for  "Father,"  who 
had  gone  away  and  never  returned.  Later, 
he  used  to  sit  on  the  top  step  of  the  big  Colonial 
porch — a  fragile  little  figure — waiting,  through 
the  long  Summer  afternoons,  for  the  father 
who  did  not  come. 

Once,  when  his  mother  was  so  absorbed  in 
her  grief  that  she  did  not  hear  him  come  into 
the  room,  he  had  laid  a  timid,  trembling  hand 
upon  her  knee,  saying:  "Mother,  if  you  will 
tell  me  where  Father  is,  I  will  go  and  bring  him 
back."  But,  instead  of  accepting  the  offer, 
she  had  caught  him  to  her  breast,  sobbing,  with 
a  sudden  rush  of  impassioned  prayer:  "Dear 
God,  no — not  that!" 

Time,  as  always,  had  done  his  merciful  heal- 


TZbc 
ssing  of 
tbe  ffatbec 


IOO 


flDaster  of  tbe 


ing,  which,  though  slow,  is  divinely  sure. 
Madame  was  smiling,  now,  at  some  old  memory 
that  had  come  mysteriously  out  of  the  shadow, 
leaving  all  bitterness  behind.  She  had  fin 
ished  mending  the  lace  and  had  laid  it  aside. 
Alden  took  it  up,  awkwardly,  and  looked  at  it. 

"This  for  the  strange  woman,"  he  said, 
teasingly,  ''and  plain  black  or  grey  silk  for  me, 
though  I  am  fain  to  believe  that  you  love  me 
best.  Why  is  it?" 

"Because,"  she  responded,  playfully,  "you 
know  me  and  love  me,  even  without  fuss  and 
frills.  For  those  who  do  not  know  us,  we 
must  put  our  best  foot  forward,  in  order  to 
make  sure  of  the  attention  our  real  merit 
deserves." 

"But  doesn't  immediately  command — is 
that  it?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"What  must  I  wear  to  the  train — my  dress 
suit?" 

"Don't  be  foolish,  son.  You  '11  have  plenty 
of  time  to  dress  after  you  get  home." 

"Shall  I  drive,  or  walk?" 

"Take  the  carriage.  She  '11  be  tired.  Un 
happy  women  are  always  tired." 

"Are  they  tired  because  they're  unhappy, 
or  unhappy  because  they  're  tired?  And  do 
they  get  unhappier  when  they  get  more  tired, 
or  do  they  get  more  tired  when  they  get 
unhappier?" 


H  Xetter  an&  a  6uest 


"Don't  ask  me  any  more  conundrums  to 
night.  I  'm  going  to  bed,  to  get  my  beauty 
sleep." 

"  You  must  have  had  a  great  many,  judging 
by  the  results." 

Madame  smiled  as  she  bent  to  kiss  his  rough 
cheek.  "Good-night,  my  dear.  Think  of  some 
other  pleasant  things  and  say  them  to-morrow 
night  to  Mrs.  Lee." 

"  I  '11  be  blest  if  I  will,"  Alden  muttered  to 
himself,  as  his  mother  lighted  a  candle  and 
waved  her  hand  prettily  in  farewell.  "  If  all 
the  distressed  daughters  of  all  mother's  old 
schoolmates  are  coming  here,  to  cry  on  her 
shoulder  and  flood  the  whole  place  with  salt 
water,  it 's  time  for  me  to  put  up  a  little  tent 
somewhere  and  move  into  it." 

By  the  next  day,  however,  he  had  forgotten 
his  ill-humour  and  was  at  the  station  fully  ten 
minutes  before  six  o'clock.  As  it  happened, 
only  one  woman  was  among  the  passengers  who 
left  the  train  at  that  point. 

"Mrs.  Lee?"  he  asked,  taking  her  suit-case 
from  her. 

"Yes.    Mr.  Marsh?" 

"  Yes.    This  way,  please." 

"How  did  you  know  me  ?  "she  inquired,  as  she 
took  her  place  in  the  worn  coupe  that  had  been 
in  the  Marsh  stables  for  almost  twenty  years. 

"By  your  handwriting,"  he  laughed,  closing 
the  door. 


102 


faster  of  tbe  lt)fne^art> 


TOltb  Sag 

an& 
baggage 


A  smile  hovered  for  a  moment  around  the 
corners  of  her  mouth,  then  disappeared. 

"Then,  too,"  he  went  on,  "as  you  were  the 
only  woman  who  got  off  the  train,  and  we 
were  expecting  you,  I  took  the  liberty  of  speak 
ing  to  you." 

"Did  you  ask  the  man  to  have  my  trunk 
sent  up?" 

"Trunk ! "  echoed  Alden,  helplessly.  "  Why, 
no!  Was  there  a  trunk?" 

She  laughed — a  little,  low  rippling  laugh 
that  had  in  it  an  undertone  of  sadness.  There 
was  a  peculiar,  throaty  quality  in  her  voice, 
like  a  muted  violin  or  'cello.  "Don't  be  so 
frightened,  please,  for  I  'm  not  going  to  stay 
long,  really.  I  'm  merely  the  sort  of  woman 
who  can't  stay  over  night  anywhere  without  a 
lot  of  baggage." 

"  It — it  was  n't  that,"  he  murmured. 

"  Yes,  it  was.  You  don't  need  to  tell  me 
polite  fibs,  you  know.  How  far  are  we  from 
the  house?" 

"Not  as  far,"  returned  Alden,  rallying  all 
his  forces  for  one  supreme  effort  of  gallantry, 
"as  I  wish  we  were." 

She  laughed  again,  began  to  speak,  then 
relapsed  into  silence.  Furtively,  in  the  gath 
ering  shadow,  he  studied  her  face.  She  was 
pale  and  cold,  the  delicate  lines  of  her  profile 
conveyed  a  certain  aloofness  of  spirit,  and  her 
mouth  drooped  at  the  corners.  Her  hat  and 


H  OLetter  ant>  a  Ouest 


veil  covered  her  hair,  but  she  had  brown  eyes 
with  long  lashes.  Very  long  lashes,  Alden 
noted,  having  looked  at  them  a  second  time  to 
make  sure. 

The  silence  became  awkward,  but  he  could 
think  of  nothing  to  say.  She  had  turned  her 
face  away  from  him  and  was  looking  out  of  the 
window.  "How  lovely  the  country  is,"  she 
said,  pensively.  "I  wish  sometimes  I  never 
had  to  step  on  a  pavement  again." 

"Do  you  have  to?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  for  I  'm  over-civilised.  Like  the  god 
in  Greek  mythology,  I  need  the  touch  of  earth 
occasionally  to  renew  my  strength,  but  a  very 
brief  contact  is  all-sufficient.  I  'm  a  child  of 
the  city,  brought  up  on  smoke  and  noise." 

"You  don't  look  it,"  he  said,  chiefly  because 
he  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say. 

Madame  herself  opened  the  door  for  them, 
with  the  old-fashioned  hospitality  which  has 
an  indefinable  charm  of  its  own.  "How  do 
you  do,  my  dear,"  she  said,  taking  the  hand  the 
younger  woman  offered  her.  In  the  instant  of 
feminine  appraisement,  she  had  noted  the 
perfectly  tailored  black  gown,  the  immaculate 
shirt-waist  and  linen  collar,  and  the  discerning 
taste  that  forbade  plumes.  The  fresh,  cool 
odour  of  violets  persisted  all  the  way  upstairs, 
as  Madame  chattered  along  sociably,  eager  to 
put  the  guest  at  her  ease. 

Below,  they  heard  Alden  giving  orders  about 


/toaster  of  tbe  IDfneparo 


••Resting  the  trunk,  and  Mrs.  Lee  smiled  —  a  little,  wan 
ghost  of  a  smile  that  Madame  misunderstood. 

"You  don't  need  to  dress,  if  you're  tired," 
she  suggested,  kindly,  "though  we  always  do. 
Come  down  just  as  you  are." 

Mrs.  Lee  turned  to  the  dainty  little  woman 
who  stood  before  her,  arrayed  in  shining 
lavender  silk.  The  real-lace  fichu  was  fastened 
at  the  waist  with  an  amethyst  pin  and  at  her 
throat  she  wore  a  string  of  silver  beads.  Her 
white  hair  was  beautifully  dressed,  and  some 
where,  among  the  smooth  coils  and  fluffy  soft 
ness,  one  caught  the  gleam  of  a  filigree  silver 
comb. 

"Not  dress?"  she  said.  "Indeed  I  shall,  as 
soon  as  my  trunk  comes.  That  is,"  she  added, 
hastily,  "if  there  's  anyone  to  hook  me  up." 

"There  is,"  Madame  assured  her.  •  "  I  '11 
leave  you  now  to  rest.  We  dine  at  half-past 
seven." 

The  sweetness  of  the  lavender-scented  room 
brought  balm  to  Edith  Lee's  tired  soul. 
"How  lovely  she  is,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
noted  the  many  thoughtful  provisions  for  her 
comfort,  "and  how  good  it  is  to  be  here." 

A  silver-framed  photograph  stood  on  her 
dressing-table,  and  she  picked  it  up,  wondering 
who  it  might  be.  The  hair  and  gown  were 
old-fashioned,  and  the  face  seemed  old- 
fashioned  also,  but,  in  a  moment,  she  had 
recognised  her  mother. 


H  OLetter  anb  a  Guest 


Tenderness  for  the  dead  and  the  living  filled 
her  heart.  How  dear  it  was  of  Madame  to 
have  placed  it  there — this  little  young  mother, 
just  budding  into  womanhood!  It  had  been 
taken  long  before  she  had  known  of  Edith,  or 
had  more  than  dreamed  of  love. 

The  arrival  of  the  trunk  compelled  her  to 
brush  away  a  few  foolish  tears.  She  did  not 
stop  to  unpack,  but  only  took  out  the  dinner 
gown  that  lay  on  top. 

Promptly  at  half-past  seven,  she  went 
down  into  the  living-room,  where  Alden  and 
his  mother  were  waiting  to  receive  her.  Ma 
dame  smiled  with  pure  delight  at  the  vision  that 
greeted  her,  but  the  young  man  forgot  his 
manners  and  stared — stared  like  the  veriest 
schoolboy  at  the  tall,  stately  figure,  clad  in 
shimmering  pale  green  satin  that  rippled  about 
her  feet  as  she  walked,  brought  out  a  bit  of 
colour  in  her  cheeks  and  lips,  deepened  the 
brown  of  her  eyes,  and,  like  the  stalk  and 
leaves  of  a  tiger-lily,  faded  into  utter  insig 
nificance  before  the  burnished  masses  of  her 
red-gold  hair. 


io6 


VIII 

"Mbom  (Bob  ibatb  Jotnefc" 

BREAKFAST  had  been  cleared  away  and 
Alden,  with  evident  regret,  had  gone  to 
school.  Madame  gave  her  orders  for  the  day, 
attended  to  a  bit  of  dusting  which  she  would 
trust  no  one  else  to  do,  gathered  up  the  weekly 
mending  and  came  into  the  living-room,  where 
the  guest  sat,  idly,  robed  in  a  gorgeous  negligee 
of  sea-green  crepe  which  was  fully  as  becoming 
as  her  dinner-gown  had  been  the  night  before. 

Madame  had  observed  that  Mrs.  Lee  was  one 
of  the  rarely  fortunate  women  who  look  as  well 
in  the  morning  as  in  the  evening.  Last  night, 
in  the  glow  of  the  pink-shaded  candles,  she 
had  been  beautiful,  and  this  morning  she  was 
no  less  lovely,  though  she  sat  in  direct  sun 
light  that  made  a  halo  of  her  hair. 

The  thick,  creamy  skin,  a  direct  legacy  from 
Louise  Lane,  needed  neither  powder  nor  rouge, 
and  the  scarlet  lips  asked  for  no  touch  of  car 
mine.  But  the  big  brown  eyes  were  wistful 
beyond  words,  the  dark  hollows  beneath  spoke 
of  sleepless  nights,  and  the  corners  of  the  sweet 


t)atb 


mouth  drooped  continually,  in  spite  of  valiant 
efforts  to  smile. 

"I  think  I  should  have  known  you  any 
where,"  Madame  beg#n.  "You  look  so  much 
like  your  mother." 

"Thank  you.  It  was  dear  of  you  to  put  her 
picture  on  my  dressing-table.  It  seemed  like 
a  welcome  from  her." 

Madame  asked  a  few  questions  about  her 
old  schoolmate,  receiving  monosyllabic  an 
swers,  then  waited.  The  silence  was  not 
awkward,  but  of  that  intimate  sort  which,  with 
women,  precedes  confidences. 

"  I  suppose  you  wonder  why  I  came,"  the 
younger  woman  said,  after  a  long  pause. 

"No,"  Madame  replied,  gently,  "for  you 
told  me  in  your  note  that  you  were  troubled 
and  thought  I  could  help  you." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  thought  of 
you  especially,  though  I  have  never  forgotten 
what  mother  told  me  about  coming  to  you,  if 
I  were  in  trouble,  but  two  or  three  days  ago, 
it  came  to  me  all  at  once  that  I  was  wandering 
in  a  maze  of  darkness  and  that  you  could  show 
me  the  way  out." 

"I  hope  I  may,"  the  old  lady  murmured. 
"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to,  if  I  can.  What  has 
gone  wrong?" 

"Everything,"  she  returned,  her  brown 
eyes  filling  with  mist.  "Of  course  it's  my 
husband.  It  always  is,  is  n't  it?" 


io8 


flDaster  ot  tbe  IDfnegarfc 


•Running 
Bwav 


"I  don't  know  why  it  should  be.  Is  he 
cruel  to  you?" 

"No,  that  is,  he  doesn't  beat  me  or  any 
thing  of  that  sort.  He  is  n't  coarse.  But 
there  's  a  refined  sort  of  cruelty  that  hurts 
worse.  I — I  could  n't  bear  it  any  longer,  and 
so  I  came  away." 

"Was  he  willing  for  you  to  come?" 

"  I  did  n't  ask  him.     I  just  came." 

Madame's  glasses  dropped  from  her  aristo 
cratic  nose  in  astonishment.  "Why,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Lee!  How  could  you!" 

"Edith,  please,  if  you  will,"  she  answered, 
wiping  her  eyes.  Then  she  laughed  bitterly. 
"Don't  be  kind  to  me,  for  I  'm  not  used  to  it 
and  it  weakens  my  armour  of  self-defence. 
Tell  me  I  'm  horrid  and  have  done  with  it." 

"Poor  child,"  breathed  Madame.  "Poor, 
dear  child!" 

For  a  few  moments  the  young  woman  bit 
her  lips,  keeping  back  the  tears  by  evident 
effort.  Then,  having  gained  her  self-control, 
she  went  on. 

"  I  'm  twenty-eight,  now,"  she  said.  "  I 
remember  mother  used  to  say  she  always  had 
her  suspicions  of  a  woman  who  was  willing  to 
tell  the  truth  about  her  age." 

"Sounds  just  like  her,"  commented  Madame, 
taking  up  a  dainty  lavender  silk  stocking  that 
had  "run  down"  from  the  hem. 

"  I  've  been  married  six  years,  but  it  seems 


1batb 


like  twenty.  Almost  from  the  first,  there  has 
been  friction  between  us,  but  nobody  knows  it, 
except  you — unless  he  's  told  his  friends,  and  I 
don't  think  he  'd  do  that.  We  've  both  had  a 
preference  for  doing  the  family  laundry  work 
on  the  premises." 

"What?"  queried  Madame,  missing  the 
allusion. 

"Not  washing  our  soiled  linen  in  public," 
Edith  explained.  "While  I  live  with  my 
husband  as  his  wife,  we  stand  together  before 
the  world  as  far  as  it  is  in  my  power  to  manage 
it.  I  do  not  intentionally  criticise  him  to 
anyone,  nor  permit  anyone  to  criticise  him.  I 
endeavour  to  look  ahead,  protect  him  against 
his  own  weakness  or  folly,  and,  as  far  as  a 
woman's  tact  and  thought  may  do,  shield  him 
from  the  consequences  of  his  own  mistakes.  I 
lie  for  him  whenever  necessary  or  even  advis 
able.  I  have  tried  to  be,  for  six  years,  shelter, 
strength,  comfort,  courage.  And,"  she  con 
cluded  bitterly,  "I  've  failed." 

"How  so?" 

"We  live  in  the  same  house,  but  alien  and 
apart.  We  talk  at  the  table  as  two  strangers 
might  in  a  crowded  restaurant  or  hotel,  that  is, 
when  he  's  there.  I  dare  not  ask  people  to 
dinner,  for  I  never  know  whether  he  's  coming 
or  not.  He  might  promise  faithfully  to  come, 
and  then  appear  at  midnight,  without  apology 
or  excuse." 


no 


flDaster  ot  tbe 


mil  Sorts 

of  Subtero 

fugcg 


"He  supports  you,"  suggested  Madame, 
glancing  at  the  sea-green  crepe. 

"Yes,  of  course.  That  is,  the  question  of 
money  has  n't  arisen  between  us,  one  way  or 
another.  I  have  no  children,  father  and 
mother  left  me  plenty  of  money,  and  I  don't 
mind  using  it  in  any  way  that  seems  advisable. 
In  fact,  if  I  had  to,  I  'd  rather  pay  the  house 
hold  bills  than  beg  for  money,  as  many  a 
wife  is  compelled  to  do — or,  for  that  matter, 
even  ask  for  it.  It  is  n't  as  if  I  had  to  earn 
it  myself,  you  know.  If  I  had  to,  I'd  probably 
feel  differently  about  it,  but,  as  it  is,  money 
does  n't  matter  between  us  at  all. 

"Friends  of  mine,"  she  resumed,  "have  to 
resort  to  all  sorts  of  subterfuges.  I  know 
women  who  bribe  the  tradespeople  to  make 
their  bills  larger  than  they  should  be  and  give 
them  the  difference  in  cash.  I  know  men 
who  seem  to  think  they  do  their  wives  a 
favour  by  paying  for  the  food  they  themselves 
eat,  and  by  paying  their  own  laundry  bills. 
Then,  every  once  in  a  while,  I  see  in  some 
magazine  an  article  written  by  a  man  who 
wonders  why  women  prefer  to  work  in  shops 
and  factories,  rather  than  to  marry.  It  must 
be  "better  to  get  a  pay-envelope  every  Saturday 
night  without  question  or  comment,  than  it  is 
to  humiliate  your  immortal  soul  to  the  dust  it 
arose  from,  begging  a  man  for  money  to  pay 
for  the  dinner  he  ate  last  night,  or  for  the  price 


'Mborn  6ot>  tmtb 


of  a  new  veil  to  cover  up  your  last  year's 
hat." 

"All  this,"  said  Madame,  threading  her 
needle  again,  "is  new  to  me.  I  live  so  out  of 
the  world,  that  I  know  very  little  of  what  is 
going  on  outside." 

"Happy  woman!  Perhaps  I  should  be 
happy,  also,  since  this  particular  phase  of  the 
problem  does  n't  concern  me.  Money  may  not 
be  your  best  friend,  but  it 's  the  quickest  to 
act,  and  seems  to  be  favourably  recognised  in 
more  places  than  most  friends  are.  For  the 
size  of  it,  a  check  book  is  about  the  greatest 
convenience  I  know  of." 

The  brown  eyes  were  cold  now,  and  their 
soft  lights  had  become  a  glitter.  The  scarlet 
mouth  was  no  longer  sweet  and  womanly,  but 
set  into  a  hard,  tight  line.  Colour  burned  in 
her  cheeks — not  a  delicate  flush,  but  the 
crimson  of  defiance,  of  daring.  She  was,  as 
she  sat  there,  a  living  challenge  to  Fate. 

"Is  he  happy?"  queried  Madame. 

"  I  suppose  so.  His  ideal  of  a  wife  seems  to 
be  one  who  shall  arrange  and  order  his  house, 
look  after  his  clothing,  provide  for  his  material 
comfort,  be  there  when  he  comes,  sit  at  the 
head  of  his  table,  dressed  in  her  best,  when  he 
deigns  to  honour  dinner  with  his  presence,  ask 
no  questions  as  to  his  comings  or  goings,  keep 
still  if  he  prefers  to  read  either  the  morning  or 
evening  paper  while  he  eats,  and  to  refrain 


112 


flDaster  of  tbe  liMneparo 


Quiet 
•Rcbuhe 


from  annoying  him  by  being  ill,  or,  at  least, 
by  speaking  of  illness. 

"I  saw,  once,  a  huge  cocoa-husk  door-mat, 
with  the  word  'Welcome'  on  it  in  big  red 
letters.  I  've  been  sorry  ever  since  that  I 
did  n't  buy  it,  for  it  typified  me  so  precisely. 
It  would  be  nice,  would  n't  it,  to  have  at  your 
front  door  something  that  exactly  indicated 
the  person  inside,  like  the  overture  to  a  Wagner 
opera,  using  all  the  themes  and  motifs  that 
were  coming?  That 's  what  I  've  been  for  six 
years,  but,  if  a  worm  will  turn,  why  not  a 
wife?" 

"  If  you  '11  excuse  me  for  saying  so,"  Madame 
answered,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  rebuke,  "I  don't 
think  it  was  quite  right  to  come  away  without 
letting  him  know  you  were  coming." 

"Why  not?" 

"He  '11  wonder  where  you  are." 

"  I  've  had  plenty  of  opportunity  to  wonder 
where  he  was." 

"But  what  will  he  think,  when  he  finds  out 
you  have  gone?" 

"  He  may  not  have  noticed  it.  I  have  com 
petent  servants  and  they  '11  look  after  him  as 
well  or  better  than  I  do.  If  I  had  left  a  wax 
figure  in  the  library,  in  one  of  my  gowns,  with 
its  back  to  the  door  and  its  head  bent  over  a 
book,  I  could  have  been  well  on  my  way  to 
China  before  I  was  missed,  or,  rather,  that  I 
was  among  those  not  present.  If  he  has  found 


"Wbom  (Bob  Ifoatb  3ofne&" 


it  out,  it  has  been  by  the  application  of  the  same 
inductive  methods  by  which  I  discover  that 
he  's  not  coming  home  to  dinner." 

"Do  you  love  him?"  In  the  answer  to  that 
question  lay  Madame's  solution  of  all  difficul 
ties,  past  and  to  come.  To  her,  it  was  the 
divine  reagent  of  all  Life's  complicated  chem 
istry;  the  swift  turning  of  the  prism,  with 
ragged  edges  breaking  the  light  into  the  col 
ours  of  the  spectrum,  to  a  point  where  refrac 
tion  was  impossible. 

"I  did,"  Edith  sighed,  "but  marriage  is  a 
great  strain  upon  love." 

The  silvery  cadence  of  Madame's  laughter 
rang  through  the  house  and  echoed  along  the 
corridor.  As  though  in  answer,  the  clock 
struck  ten,  the  canary  sang  happily,  and  a 
rival  melody  came  from  the  kitchen,  in  cracked 
soprano,  mercifully  muted  by  distance  and  two 
closed  doors. 

"See  what  you've  started,"  Edith  said. 
"  It 's  like  the  poem,  where  the  magic  kiss  woke 
the  princess,  and  set  all  the  clocks  to  going 
and  the  little  dogs  to  barking  outside.  Don't 
let  me  talk  you  to  death — I  've  been  chattering 
for  considerably  over  an  hour,  and,  very  sel 
fishly,  of  my  own  affairs,  to  the  exclusion  of 
everything  else." 

"But  your  affairs  interest  me  extremely.  I 
wish  I  knew  of  some  way  to  help  you." 

"In  the  last  analysis,  of  course,  it  comes  to 


IJ4  /iDaster  of  tbe 


this  —  either  go  on  and  make  the  best  of  it,  or 

{Carriage      quit." 

"Not  —  not  divorce,"  breathed  Madame. 
Her  violet  eyes  were  wide  with  horror. 

"No,"  Edith  answered,  shortly,  "not 
divorce.  Separation,  possibly,  but  not  divorce, 
which  is  only  a  legal  form  permitting  one  to 
marry  again.  Personally,  I  feel  bound  by  the 
solemn  oath  I  took  at  the  altar,  'until  death 
do  us  part,'  and  'forsaking  all  others  keep  thee 
only  unto  me  so  long  as  we  both  shall  live.' 
All  the  laws  in  the  country  could  n't  make  me 
feel  right  with  my  own  conscience  if  I  violated 
that  oath." 

"If  the  marriage  service  were  changed," 
Madame  said,  nodding  her  approval,  "it 
might  be  justified.  If  one  said,  at  the  altar, 
'Until  death  or  divorce  do  us  part,'  or  'Until  I 
see  someone  else  I  like  better/  there  'd  be 
reason  for  it,  but,  as  it  is,  there  is  n't.  And 
again,  it  says,  Those  whom  God  hath  joined  let 
no  man  put  asunder." 

"Those  whom  God  hath  joined  no  man  can 
put  asunder,"  Edith  retorted,  "but  did  God 
do  it?  It  doesn't  seem  right  to  blame  Him 
for  all  the  pitiful  mistakes  that  masquerade  as 
marriage.  Mother  used  to  say,"  she  resumed, 
after  a  little,  "that  when  you're  more  miser 
able  without  a  man  than  you  think  you  ever 
could  be  with  him,  it  's  time  to  marry  him,  and 
when  you  're  more  miserable  with  him  than 


H5 

you  think  you  ever  could  be  without  him.  it 's 
.  .    ,  TOlomen 

time  to  quit. 

"And,"  suggested  Madame,  "in  which  class 
do  you  belong?" 

"Both,  I  think — that  is,  I  'm  miserable 
enough  to  belong  to  both.  I  'm  unhappy 
when  he  's  with  me  and  wretched  when  he 
is  n't.  As  he  mostly  is  n't,  I  'm  more  wretched 
than  unhappy.  In  the  small  circle  in  which 
I  move,  I  'm  considered  a  very  fortunate 
woman. 

"Women  who  are  compelled  to  be  mendi 
cants  and  who  do  not  know  that  I  have  a 
private  income,  envy  me  my  gowns  and  hats, 
my  ability  to  ask  a  friend  or  two  to  luncheon 
if  I  choose,  and  the  unfailing  comfort  of  a  taxi- 
cab  if  1  'm  caught  in  the  rain.  They  think,  if 
they  had  my  gowns  and  my  grooming,  that 
they  could  win  and  keep  love,  which  seems  to 
be  about  all  a  woman  wants.  But  these 
things  are,  in  reality,  as  useless  as  painting  the 
house  when  the  thermometer  is  below  zero  and 
you  need  a  fire  inside  to  warm  your  hands  by. 
I  have  imported  gowns  and  real  lace  and  furs 
and  jewels  and  all  the  grooming  I  'm  willing 
to  take,  but  my  soul  is  frozen  and  starved. 

"My  house,"  she  went  on,  "is  n't  a  mansion, 
but  it  has  all  the  comforts  anyone  could 
reasonably  require.  As  far  as  my  taste  can 
discover,  it 's  artistic  and  even  unusual.  The 
dinner  my  cook  sends  up  every  night  is  as 


n6  toaster  of  tbe 


good,  or  better  than  any  first-class  hotel  can 

"Cbing  .          .    .  J .  . 

lacwng     serve,  though  it  may  not  be  quite  so  elaborate. 

"I  myself  am  not  so  bad  to  look  at,  I  am 
well  dressed,  and  never  untidy.  I  am  disgust 
ingly  well,  which  is  fortunate,  for  most  men 
hate  a  sick  woman.  If  I  have  a  headache  I 
don't  speak  of  it.  I  neither  nag  nor  fret  nor 
scold,  and  I  even  have  a  few  parlour  tricks 
which  other  people  consider  attractive.  For 
six  years,  I  have  given  generously  and  from  a 
full  heart  everything  he  has  seemed  to  require 
of  me. 

"  I  've  striven  in  every  way  to  please  him, 
adapting  myself  to  his  tastes.  I  've  even  been 
the  sort  of  woman  men  call  'a  good  fellow,' 
admiringly  among  women  and  contemptu 
ously  among  themselves.  And,  in  return,  I 
have  nothing — not  even  the  fairy  gold  that 
changes  to  withered  leaves  when  you  take  it 
into  the  sunshine." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  good  deal,  dear- 
youth  and  health  and  strength  and  sufficient 
income.  How  many  women  would  be  glad 
to  have  what  you  have?" 

"  I  want  love,"  cried  Edith,  piteously.  "  I 
want  someone  to  care  for  me — to  be  proud  of 
me  for  what  I  am  and  the  little  things  I  can 
do!  If  I  painted  a  hideous  dog  on  a  helpless 
china  plate,  I  'd  want  someone  to  think  it  was 
pretty.  If  I  cooked  a  mess  in  the  chafing-dish 
or  on  the  stove,  I  'd  want  someone  to  think  it 


TKflbom  Oo&  1batb  Joined" 


was  good,  just  because  I  did  it!  If  I  embroid 
ered  a  red  rose  on  a  pink  satin  sofa  cushion,  or 
painted  a  Winter  scene  on  a  wooden  snow- 
shovel  and  hung  it  up  in  the  parlour,  I  'd 
want  someone  to  think  it  was  beautiful.  If  I 
wrote  a  limerick,  I  'd  want  someone  to  think 
it  was  clever.  I  want  appreciation,  considera 
tion,  sympathy,  affection!  I  'm  starving  for 
love,  I  'm  dying  for  it,  and  I  'd  go  across  the 
desert  on  my  knees  for  the  man  who  could  give 
it  to  me!" 

"Perhaps  he  cares,"  said  Madame,  consol 
ingly,  "and  does  n't  show  it." 

"You  can  tell  by  the  way  a  man  kisses  you 
whether  he  cares  or  not.  If  he  does  n't  kiss 
you  at  all,  he  does  n't  care  and  does  n'  t  even 
mind  your  knowing  it.  If  he  kisses  you  duti 
fully,  without  a  trace  of  feeling,  and,  by  pre 
ference,  on  your  cheek  or  neck,  he  does  n't  care 
but  thinks  he  ought  to,  and  hopes  you  won't 
find  out  that  he  does  n't.  But,  if  he  cares 
— ah,  how  it  thrills  you  if  he  cares!" 

Madame's  violet  eyes  grew  dim.  "  I  know," 
she  said,  brokenly,  "for  I  had  it  all  once,  long 
ago.  People  used  to  say  that  marriage  changes 
love,  but,  with  us,  it  only  grew  and  strength 
ened.  The  beginning  was  no  more  the  ful 
ness  of  love  than  an  acorn  is  the  oak  tree 
which  springs  from  it.  We  had  our  trials,  our 
differences,  and  our  various  difficulties,  but 
they  meant  nothing. 


us  flDaster  of  tbe 


•at  flfta^  "  I  've  had  almost  all  the  experiences  of 
life,"  she  continued,  clearing  her  throat. 
"The  endless  cycle  of  birth  and  death  has 
passed  on  its  way  through  me.  I  've  known 
poverty,  defeat,  humiliation,  doubt,  grief, 
discouragement,  despair.  I  've  had  illness  and 
death;  I  've  borne  children  only  to  lose  them 
again.  I  've  worked  hard  and  many  times 
1  've  had  to  work  alone,  but  I  've  had  love, 
though  all  I  have  left  of  it  is  a  sunken  grave." 

"And  I,"  answered  Edith,  "have  had 
everything  else  but  love.  Believe  me,  I  'd 
take  all  you  've  had,  even  the  grave,  if  I  could 
have  it  once." 

"It  may  come,"  said  Madame,  hopefully. 

Edith  shook  her  head.  "That  's  what  I  'm 
afraid  of." 

"How  so?    Why  be  afraid?" 

"You  see,"  she  explained,  "I  'm  young  yet 
and  I  'm  not  so  desperately  unattractive  as 
my  matrimonial  experiences  might  lead  one 
to  believe.  I  have  n't  known  there  was 
another  man  on  earth  except  my  husband, 
but  his  persistent  neglect  has  made  me  open 
my  eyes  a  little,  and  I  begin  to  see  others,  on 
a  far  horizon.  Red  blood  has  a  way  of 
answering  to  red  blood,  whether  there  are 
barriers  between  or  not,  and  if  I  loved  another 
man,  and  he  were  unscrupulous  -  " 

"But,"  objected  the  older  woman,  "you 
could  n't  love  an  unscrupulous  man." 


"Mbom  <Bot>  toatb  3oinet>" 


"Couldn't  I?  My  dear,  when  I  see  the 
pitiful  specimens  of  manhood  that  women 
love,  the  things  they  give,  the  sacrifices  they 
make,  the  neglect  and  desertions  they  suffer 
from,  the  countless  humiliations  they  strive  to 
bear  proudly,  I  wonder  that  any  one  of  us 
dares  to  look  in  the  mirror. 

"It's  the  eternal  woman-hunger  for  love 
that  makes  us  what  we  are,  compels  us  to 
endure  what  we  do,  and  keeps  us  all  door-mats 
with  'Welcome'  printed  on  us  in  red  letters. 
Eagerly  trustful,  we  keep  on  buying  tickets 
to  the  circus,  and  never  discover  until  we  're 
old  and  grey,  that  it 's  always  exactly  the 
same  entertainment,  and  we  're  admitted  to 
it,  each  time,  by  a  different  door. 

"Sometimes  we  see  the  caged  wild  animals 
first,  and  again,  we  arrive  at  the  pink-lemon 
ade  stand;  or,  up  at  the  other  end,  where 
the  trapezes  are,  or  in  the  middle,  opposite 
the  tank.  Sometimes  the  band  plays  and 
sometimes  it  does  n't,  but  all  you  need  in 
order  to  be  thoroughly  disillusioned  is  to  stay 
to  the  concert,  which  bears  about  the  same 
relation  to  the  circus  that  marriage  does  to 
your  anticipations." 

"Are  you  afraid,"  laughed  Madame,  "that 
you  'II  buy  another  ticket?" 

"No,  but  I  'II  find  it,  or  somebody  will  give 
me  a  pass.  I  'm  too  young  to  stay  to  the 
concert  and  there  's  more  of  life  coming  to  me 


I2O 


/IDaster  ot  tbe 


still.  I  only  hope  and  pray  that  I  '11  manage 
to  keep  my  head  and  not  make  the  fatal,  heart 
breaking  mistake  of  the  women  who  go  over 
the  precipice,  waving  defiance  at  the  social 
law  that  bids  them  stay  with  the  herd." 

"Your  metaphors  are  mixed,"  Madame 
commented.  "Concerts  and  circuses,  and 
herds,  and  precipices  and  door-mats.  I  feel 
as  though  you  had  presented  me  with  a  jig-saw 
puzzle." 

"So  I  have.  Is  my  life  anything  more  than 
that?  I  don't  even  know  that  all  the  pieces 
are  there.  If  they  would  only  print  the 
picture  on  the  cover  of  the  box,  or  tell  us  how 
many  pieces  there  are,  and  give  us  more  than 
one  or  two  at  a  time,  and  eternity  to  solve  it  in, 
we  'd  stand  some  chance,  perhaps." 

"More  mixed  metaphors,"  Madame  said, 
rolling  up  the  mended  stockings. 

A  maid  came  into  the  dining-room  and 
began  to  set  the  table  for  luncheon.  Edith 
rose  from  her  chair  and  came  to  Madame. 
The  dark  hollows  under  her  eyes  were  evident 
now  and  all  the  youth  was  gone  from  her  face 
and  figure. 

"Well,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "what  am  I 
to  do?" 

It  was  some  little  time  before  Madame 
answered.  "I  do  not  know.  These  modern 
times  are  too  confused  for  me.  The  old  way 
would  have  been  to  wait,  to  do  the  best  one 


H'dbom  eofc  1batb  3ofnefc" 


could,  and  trust  God  to  make  it  right  in  His 
own  good  time." 

Edith  shook  her  head.  "I  've  waited  and 
I  've  done  the  best  I  could,  and  I  've  tried  to 
trust." 

"No  one  can  solve  a  problem  for  another, 
but,  I  think,  when  it 's  time  to  act,  one  knows 
what  to  do  and  the  way  is  clearly  opened  for 
one  to  do  it.  Don't  you  feel  better  for  having 
come  here  and  talked  to  me?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  young  woman, 
gratefully.  "So  much  was  right — I  'm  sure 
of  that.  The  train  had  scarcely  started  before 
I  felt  more  at  peace  than  I  had  for  years." 

"Then,  dear,  won't  you  stay  with  me  until 
you  know  just  what  to  do?" 

Edith  looked  long  and  earnestly  into  the 
sweet  old  face.  "Do  you  mean  it?  It  may 
be  a  long  time." 

"  I  mean  it — no  matter  how  long  it  is." 

Quick  tears  sprang  to  the  brown  eyes,  and 
Edith  brushed  them  aside,  half  ashamed.  "It 
means  more  trunks,"  she  said,  "and  your 
son " 

"Will  be  delighted  to  have  you  with  us," 
Madame  concluded. 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Absolutely."  Madame  was  not  at  all  sure, 
but  she  told  her  lie  prettily. 

"Then,"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile,  "  I  '11 
stay." 


122 


Bl&en's 

fl&ea  of  a 

Urunft 


IX 


Spring 


WITH  the  tact  that  seems  the  birthright  of 
the  gifted  few,  Mrs.  Lee  adjusted  her 
self  to  the  ways  of  the  Marsh  household. 
Some  commotion  had  been  caused  by  the 
arrival  of  four  more  trunks,  of  different  shapes 
and  sizes,  but  after  they  had  been  unpacked 
and  stored,  things  went  on  smoothly. 

Alden's  idea  of  a  trunk  had  hitherto  been 
very  simple.  To  him,  it  was  only  a  substan 
tial  box,  variation  in  size  and  in  exterior  finish 
being  the  only  possible  diversions  from  the 
original  type.  When  it  fell  to  his  lot,  on  a 
Saturday  morning,  to  superintend  the  removal 
of  Mrs.  Lee's  empty  trunks  to  the  attic,  he 
discovered  the  existence  of  hat  trunks,  dresser 
trunks,  and  wardrobe  trunks,  cannily  con 
structed  with  huge  warts  on  all  sides  but  the 
one  the  trunk  was  meant  to  stand  upon. 

"Why  so  scornful?"  a  sweet  voice  asked,  at 
his  elbow. 

"I'm  not  scornful,"  he  returned.  "I'm 
merely  interested." 


H  Spring 


"You're  fortunate,"  she  smiled,  "to  be  so 
easily  interested." 

"We're  out  of  the  world  here,  you  know, 
and  unfamiliar  varieties  of  the  trunk  species 
make  me  feel  much  as  Crusoe  did  when  he  came 
upon  a  human  footprint  in  the  sand." 

"  I  wonder,"  mused  Mrs.  Lee,  "how  he  really 
did  feel.  It  must  have  been  dramatic  beyond 
all  words." 

She  sat  down  on  the  window-seat  in  the  hall 
and  leaned  back  against  the  casement  of  the 
open  window.  The  warm  Spring  wind,  laden 
with  the  sweet  scent  of  growing  things,  played 
caressingly  about  her  neck  and  carried  to  Alden 
a  subtle  fragrance  of  another  sort.  Her  tur 
quoise-blue  silk  kimono,  delicately  embroidered 
in  gold,  was  open  at  the  throat  and  fastened  at 
the  waist  with  a  heavy  golden  cord.  Below,  it 
opened  over  a  white  petticoat  that  was  a  mass 
of  filmy  lace  ruffles.  Her  tiny  feet  peeped  out 
beneath  the  lace,  clad  in  pale  blue  silk  stock 
ings  and  fascinating  Chinese  slippers  that 
turned  up  at  the  toes. 

From  above  came  discordant  rumblings 
and  eloquent,  but  smothered  remarks  on  the 
general  subject  of  trunks.  Mrs.  Lee  laughed. 
"They  're  trying  to  make  the  wardrobe-trunk 
stand  up  on  the  wrong  end,  and  it  won't." 

"How  do  you  know  that 's  it?" 

"Because  I  've  heard  the  same  noises  and  the 
same  general  trend  of  conversation  all  the 


124 


flDaster  of  tbe 


Sounds 
from  tbe 

Bttic 


way  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  and  back 
again.  The  farther  west  you  go,  the  more 
accomplished  the  men  are  in  the  art  of  pro 
fanity." 

"  Is  it  an  art?    I  thought  it  came  naturally." 

"It  does,  to  some,  but  you  have  no  idea 
what  study  and  constant  practice  can  do  in 
developing  a  natural  gift." 

The  sunlight  illumined  her  hair  into  a  mass 
of  spun  gold  that  sparkled  and  gleamed  and 
shone.  It  made  golden  lights  in  her  brown 
eyes,  caressed  the  ivory  softness  of  her  skin, 
and  deepened  the  scarlet  of  her  lips. 

"Listen,"  she  said.     "Is  n't  it  awful?" 

"No,"  returned  Alden,  "it  isn't.  In  fact, 
I  don't  know  of  any  sound  I  'd  rather  hear 
than  your  trunks  being  put  into  our  attic." 

A  faint  suggestion  of  a  dimple  appeared 
at  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  then  vanished. 
"Well  done,"  she  said.  "You  have  atoned 
nobly  for  your  dismay  the  night  I  came,  when 
you  found  I  'd  brought  a  trunk." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  he  replied,  awk 
wardly.  "It  was  n't  that." 

"Such  a  small  trunk,"  she  went  on,  merci 
lessly.  "Just  a  plain  little  steamer  trunk 
that  you  can  put  under  a  bed.  The  kind  you 
can  ask  a  cabman  to  take  down  to  the  cab  for 
you.  A  little  trunk  that  a  woman  can  almost 
carry  herself!  Only  room  for  one  gown,  one 
hat,  and  a  few  toilet  articles!" 


a  Spring 


The  golden  lights  in  her  eyes  were  dancing 
and  her  hair  shimmered  in  the  sun.  Alden  sat 
down  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  window-seat 
and  looked  out  upon  the  vineyard,  faintly 
green,  now,  with  the  new  leaves.  The  two 
men  descended  from  the  attic  and  went  down 
the  back  stairs. 

"How  did  Robinson  Crusoe  feel  when  he 
saw  the  footprint?"  he  asked,  determined  to 
get  away  from  the  unlucky  subject  of  trunks. 

"I  don't  know,"  Edith  answered,  "for  I 
was  n't  there.  He  must  have  been  surprised 
and  frightened  and  pleased  all  at  once.  How 
interesting  it  must  be  to  have  something  hap 
pen  to  you  that  never  happened  to  anybody 
before!" 

"But  it 's  all  happened  before,"  he  objected. 
"Is  there  anything  new  under  the  sun  ?" 

"It's  been  new,  at  one  time  or  another- 
We  're  always  too  late,  that 's  all.  Somebody 
ate  the  first  oyster  and  somebody  went  to  sleep 
first  and  somebody  wore  the  first  false  hair. 

"No,"  she  continued,  with  a  rose-pink  flush 
mantling  her  face,  "I  don't.  If  I  did,  I 
would  n't  mind  saying  so,  but  Nature  gave  me 
quantities  of  it,  so  why  should  I  borrow  more? 
Besides,  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  more  like 
it,  so  I  could  n't,  anyway." 

"No,"  he  returned,  thoughtfully,  "I  don't 
believe  there  is  any  more  like  it,  either.  Your 
wish  to  be  first  in  something  is  surely  gratified, 


126 


jflDaster  of  tbe  Dine^arfc 


IReb  f)ait 

anb 
Huburn 


for  there  never  was  such  hair  as  yours  and 
never  will  be  again." 

"Mother's  was  like  it." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  it  wasn't.  I 
never  saw  your  mother,  but  I  know  better 
than  that." 

"Ask  your  mother.    There  she  is  now." 

Madame  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
on  the  way  to  her  room,  to  dress  for  luncheon. 
She  paused  to  smile  at  the  two  who  sat  on  the 
window-seat,  then  would  have  gone  straight  on 
had  not  Edith  called  to  her. 

"Mrs.  Marsh!  Isn't  my  hair  exactly  like 
my  mother's?" 

Madame  came  to  her,  turned  the  shining 
head  a  little  more  toward  the  sun,  and  patted 
the  fluffiness  caressingly.  "No,"  she  said, 
"though  your  mother  had  glorious  hair,  it  was 
nothing  like  this.  Hers  was  auburn  and 
smooth,  yours  is  reddish-gold — almost  copper- 
coloured — and  fluffy.  Besides,  you  must  have 
nearly  twice  as  much  of  it." 

"There,"  said  Alden,  "  I  told  you  so." 

"But,"  persisted  Edith,  "if  it's  really 
copper-coloured,  it 's  common.  Look  at  the 
lady  on  the  copper  cent,  for  instance." 

"The  lady  on  the  copper  cent,"  returned 
Alden,  "is  a  gentleman  who  wears  feathers." 

"But  under  his  feathers  he  has  hair  the 
colour  of  this." 

"He  may  not  have  any  hair  at  all." 


H  Spring 


127 


They  both  laughed,  and  Madame  smiled, 
though  she  did  not  quite  understand  what 
they  were  talking  about.  She  was  still  smiling 
when  she  reached  her  own  room,  for  she  found 
it  very  pleasant  to  have  Edith  there,  and  was 
delighted  to  have  Alden  come  to  a  realising 
sense  of  his  duties  as  host. 

He  had,  indeed,  conducted  himself  admira 
bly  ever  since  Mrs.  Lee's  arrival,  though  he 
had  been  very  quiet  and  reserved  at  first. 
With  some  trepidation,  she  had  told  him  that 
she  had  invited  the  guest  to  remain  indefinitely, 
tactfully  choosing  a  moment  after  an  unusually 
good  dinner,  when  they  chanced  to  be  alone. 

Alden  had  taken  it  calmly,  betraying  no 
outward  sign  of  any  sort  of  emotion.  "  What 's 
the  matter  with  her?"  he  had  asked,  curiously. 
"What 's  she  in  trouble  about?" 

"  If  she  wants  you  to  know,  my  son,  she  will 
tell  you  herself,"  Madame  had  replied,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  rebuke.  "  I  have  no  right  to 
violate  her  confidence." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  good-humouredly. 
"You  don't  need  to  squelch  me  like  that, 
Mother.  I  don't  know  that  I  care,  particu 
larly.  I  was  merely  making  conversation." 

"Refined  conversation  is  not  made  of 
impertinences,"  Madame  suggested.  The  words 
were  harsh,  but  the  tone  was  kind. 

"Don't  stab  me  with  epigrams,  please,  for 
I  don't  believe  I  deserve  it." 


liUbat'a 

tbe 

matter 
witb  Uer  1 


128 


/toaster  of  tbe  Dinegaro 


Breams 

Cbil&rcn 


Madame  recalled  every  word  they  had  said 
as  she  took  down  her  afternoon  gown  of 
black  silk,  and  began  to  sew  frills  of  real  lace 
in  the  neck  and  sleeves.  She  was  glad  he  had 
been  pleasant  about  it,  for  it  seemed  much 
more  like  living,  someway,  to  have  another 
woman  in  the  house. 

If  Virginia  had  lived — she,  too,  had  brown 
eyes,  but  her  hair  was  brown  also.  She  would 
have  been  four  years  older  than  Edith  was 
now,  and,  undoubtedly,  married.  All  Ma- 
dame's  feminine  ancestors  for  generations  back 
had  been  married.  The  only  spinster  in  the 
family,  so  far  as  Madame  knew,  had  remained 
true  to  the  memory  of  a  dead  lover. 

"Some  women  are  born  to  be  married,  some 
achieve  marriage,  and  others  have  marriage 
thrust  upon  them,"  Madame  said  to  herself, 
unconsciously  paraphrasing  an  old  saying. 
Virginia  would  have  been  meant  for  it,  too, 
and,  by  now,  there  would  have  been  children 
in  the  old  house,  pattering  back  and  forth  upon 
the  stairs,  lisping  words  that  meant  no  more 
than  the  bubbling  of  a  fountain,  and  stretching 
up  tiny  hands  that  looked  like  crumpled  rose- 
petals,  pleading  to  be  taken  up  and  loved. 

These  dream-children  tugged  strangely  at 
the  old  lady's  heart-strings  in  her  moments 
of  reverie.  Even  yet,  after  Rosemary  came— 
but  they  would  not  be  like  her  own  flesh  and 
blood,  as  a  daughter's  children  always  are. 


a  Spring  2>as 

Poor  Rosemary!  How  miserable  she  was  at 
home,  and  how  little  she  would  need  to  make 
her  happy!  To  think  that  she  dared  not  tell 
her  Grandmother  and  Aunt  that  she  was 
engaged  to  Alden!  Madame's  cheeks  grew 
warm  with  resentment  in  the  girl's  behalf. 
Motherless,  friendless,  alone,  with  Life's  great 
cup  of  wonder  in  her  rough,  red  hands! 

A  tap  at  the  door  made  her  start.  "Come 
in!"  she  called. 

It  was  Edith,  trig  and  tailor-made,  in  dark 
green,  with  a  crisp  white  linen  shirtwaist, 
an  immaculate  collar,  and  a  dashing  green 
tie. 

"Mr.  Marsh  has  invited  me  to  go  for  a  drive 
after  luncheon,"  she  said,  "and  he  asked  me 
to  come  and  see  if  you  were  n't  almost  ready. 
May  I  do  your  hair  for  you?" 

Madame  submitted,  not  because  she  cared 
to  have  her  hair  done,  but  because  she  liked 
to  be  "fussed  over,"  as  she  put  it.  There  was 
something  very  pleasant  in  the  touch  of 
Edith's  cool,  soft  hands. 

"  You  're — you  're  not  going  to  change  the 
way  I  do  it,  are  you?"  she  asked,  a  little 
anxiously. 

"No,  indeed!  I  wouldn't  change  it  for 
anything.  It  suits  you  just  as  it  is." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  think  so,  for  I  've  always 
worn  it  like  this.  Alden  would  n't  know  me 
if  I  became  fashionable." 


130  flDaster  ot  tbe 


it  isn't  "He  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  you,"  said 
Edith,  irrelevantly. 

"No,  but  he  's  the  living  image  of  his  father, 
and  I  'm  very  glad.  It  keeps  me  from  —  from 
missing  him  too  much."  Madame's  voice 
broke  a  little  on  the  last  words. 

"  It  must  be  lovely  to  be  missed,"  said  Edith, 
quickly.  "Now  I  -  " 

"Dear,  have  n't  you  told  him  yet?" 

"  He  's  probably  discovered  it  by  this  time. 
Still,  I  don't  know  —  I  've  only  been  away  a 
week." 

"It  isn't  right,"  said  Madame,  decidedly. 
"  You  must  let  him  know  where  you  are." 

"Why?     I  never  know  where  he  is." 

"That  does  n't  make  any  difference.  Two 
wrongs  never  make  one  perfect  right.  If  you 
do  your  part,  things  will  be  only  half  wrong, 
instead  of  entirely  so." 

"I'll  do  whatever  you  think  best,"  said 
Edith,  humbly.  "I  came  to  you  because  1 
could  think  for  myself  no  longer.  I  '11  write 
him  a  note  before  luncheon,  if  you  say  so,  and 
post  it  this  afternoon." 

"  I  do  say  so." 

Therefore  luncheon  waited  for  a  few 
moments,  to  Alden's  secret  impatience,  until 
Edith  came  down  with  her  note.  She  offered 
it  to  Madame,  doubtfully.  "Want  to  see  it?" 

"No,  dear.     I'll  trust  you." 

She  sealed  it  with  shamefaced  gladness  that 


a 


Madame  had  not  availed  herself  of  the  oppor 
tunity.  She  was  quite  sure  that  her  coun 
sellor  would  not  approve  of  the  few  formal  lines 
which  were  all  she  had  been  able  to  make  her 
self  write. 

After  luncheon,  when  Alden  assisted  her  into 
Madame 's  decrepit  phaeton,  and  urged  the 
superannuated  horse  into  a  wildly  exciting 
pace  of  three  miles  an  hour,  she  asked  to  be 
driven  to  the  post-office. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Alden,  "for  alluding  to 
it  as  a  drive.  It 's  more  like  a  walk." 

"  It  is  n't  exactly  like  going  out  in  a  touring 
car,"  she  admitted,  "but  it's  very  pleasant, 
nevertheless.  It  gives  you  time  to  look  at  the 
scenery." 

"Also  to  photograph  it  if  you  should  so 
desire.  You  don't  even  need  to  limit  yourself 
to  snap-shots.  A  time-exposure  is  altogether 
possible." 

When  they  reached  the  post-office,  Alden 
took  her  note,  and  went  through  the  formality 
of  tying  the  horse.  He  glanced  at  the  super 
scription,  not  because  he  was  interested  in  her 
unknown  correspondent,  but  because  the  hand 
writing  claimed  his  attention.  Through  the 
delicate  angular  tracery  he  made  out  the 
address:  "Mr.  William  G.  Lee."  The  street 
and  number  were  beyond  his  skill  in  the  brief 
time  he  had  at  his  command. 

"So,"  he  said,  when  he  came  back,  "you  're 


132 


flDaster  ot  tbe 


tore. 
TOUlliam 


Mrs.  William  G.  I  trust  you  don't  call  him 
'William'?" 

"  No — he  's  the  sort  of  William  who  is  always 
known  as  'Billy.'  ' 

"Good!    That  speaks  well  for  him." 

Alden  began  to  wonder,  as  he  alternately 
coaxed  and  threatened  the  horse  toward  the 
river-road,  what  manner  of  man  she  had  mar 
ried.  Someone,  undoubtedly,  with  the  face 
and  figure  of  Apollo,  the  courtesy  of  Chester 
field,  and  the  character  of  a  saint.  "It  was 
good  of  him,"  he  said,  gratefully,  "to  let  you 
come  to  us." 

Edith  bit  her  lips  and  turned  her  face  away. 
"  I  was  glad  to  come,"  she  answered,  after  a 
pause.  For  a  moment  she  trembled  upon  the 
verge  of  a  confidence,  then  summoned  all  her 
conversational  powers  to  the  rescue. 

She  began  with  the  natural  beauty  of  the 
country  through  which  they  were  driving, 
observed  that  the  roads  were  better  adapted 
to  a  horse  than  to  an  automobile,  noted  the 
pleasant  situation  of  the  Marsh  house  on  the 
river  shore,  veered  for  a  moment  to  the  sub 
ject  of  good  roads  in  France,  came  back  to  the 
blue  reflection  of  the  sky  upon  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  river,  admired  the  situation  of 
the  vineyard,  said  that  Madame's  phaeton  was 
extremely  comfortable,  and  concluded  by 
asking  if  it  was  n't  almost  time  for  apple- 
blossoms. 


a  Spring 


"All  of  which  means,"  said  Alden,  quietly, 
"that  you're  unhappily  married." 

"How  do  you  know?"  demanded  Edith, 
crimson  with  surprise  and  mortification.  "  Did 
— did  your  mother  tell  you?" 

"No,  she  did  n't — most  decidedly  she  did  n't. 
I  just  know,  that 's  all." 

"How?  Do  I  betray  myself  so  completely 
as  that?" 

He  answered  her  question  by  another. 
"How  did  you  know,  the  night  you  came,  that 
I  was  surprised  and  not  altogether  pleased  by 
the  fact  that  you  had  brought  a  trunk?  Were 
my  manners  as  bad  as  all  that?" 

"Why,  no — I  just  knew." 

"And  how  did  you  know,  this  morning, 
when  we  were  sitting  on  the  window-seat, 
that  I  was  wondering  whether  or  not  you  wore 
false  hair?" 

"Why — I  just  knew." 

"That 's  it,  exactly." 

"How  long  have  you — known?" 

"Ask  me  something  easier  than  that,"  he 
laughed,  endeavouring  to  relieve  a  situation 
that  threatened  to  become  awkward.  Fol 
lowing  his  lead,  she  began  to  ask  questions 
about  the  vineyard,  and,  when  he  told  her  he 
feared  he  knew  very  little  about  his  work, 
suggested  that  he  should  read  up  on  vine- 
culture  and  make  it  the  best-paying  vineyard 
in  the  State. 


134 


/iDaster  of  tbe  Dine^aro 


Hn 
Bfternoon 

EJrire 


"Has  mother  been  talking  to  you?"  he 
demanded,  turning  Jo  her  quickly. 

"About  the  vineyard?  No.  But,  if  it's 
your  work,  why  not  do  it  better  than  anybody 
else  does  it?" 

Alden  looked  at  her  long  and  earnestly. 
The  golden  lights  of  her  eyes  were  thrown  into 
shadow  now,  for  it  was  afternoon  and  they 
were  driving  east.  Her  answering  smile 
gave  him  confidence,  courage.  Moreover,  it 
challenged  him  in  some  subtle  way  he  could 
not  analyse.  It  dared  him,  as  it  were,  to 
make  the  best  of  the  vineyard — and  himself. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  at  length.  "I 
believe — I  will." 

The  divine  moment  passed,  and,  for  the 
remainder  of  the  drive,  they  talked  common 
places.  But  the  fresh  air  from  the  hills,  the 
freedom  of  the  wind-swept  spaces,  the  steady 
aspiration  of  everything  that  lived,  brought 
the  colour  to  Edith's  cheeks,  the  sparkle  to  her 
eyes,  and  ministered  secretly  to  her  soul. 
When  she  went  in,  she  looked  happier  than 
she  had  since  she  came.  Madame  saw  it  and 
was  glad,  but  wisely  said  nothing. 

She  came  down  at  dinner-time  in  a  black 
lace  gown  trimmed  with  spangles  that  glittered 
when  she  moved.  It  was  cut  away  slightly 
from  the  rounded,  ivory  throat,  and  the  white 
arms  were  bare  to  the  elbow.  The  upper  parts 
of  the  sleeves  were  made  of  black  velvet  ribbon, 


H  Spring  Bap 


135 


latticed  into  small  diamond-shaped  openings 
through  which  the  satin  texture  of  the  skin 
showed  in  the  candlelight.  She  wore  no  rings, 
except  the  slender  circlet  of  gold  that  had  been 
put  on  her  finger  at  the  altar,  six  years  ago. 

Conversation  at  dinner  proceeded  slowly, 
but  on  pleasant  lines.  Edith  seemed  pre 
occupied,  and,  at  times,  Alden  relapsed  into 
long  silences.  Madame  noted  that  they 
scarcely  spoke  to  each  other,  and  was  vaguely 
troubled,  for  she  liked  Edith,  and  wanted 
Alden  to  like  her  too. 

After  dinner,  Edith  played  cribbage  with 
Madame  and  Alden  read  the  paper.  When 
Madame  had  won  three  games,  in  rapid  succes 
sion,  Edith  said  good-night.  Alden,  from  the 
depths  of  his  paper,  murmured  the  conven 
tional  response. 

That  night  he  started  from  his  sleep  with  a 
sense  of  foreboding.  He  sat  up  and  listened, 
but  there  was  no  sound.  Not  even  the  wind 
moving  a  shutter,  nor  a  swaying  branch  tap 
ping  at  his  window — not  a  footfall,  nor  an 
echo,  nor  a  breath. 

The  tall  clock  on  the  landing  struck  four. 
The  silvery  strokes  died  away  into  a  silence 
that  was  positive,  rather  than  negative.  The 
sense  of  foreboding  still  persisted;  moreover, 
he  was  conscious  that  someone  else  was  awake 
also. 


Sense 
of 

foreboMncj 


136 


flDaster  of  tbe  Dinegarfc 


B 

cr 
perception 


Was  it  his  mother  ?  Was  she  ill  ?  No — he 
was  sure  of  that.  Was  it  Edith?  Yes,  that 
was  it.  She  was  awake,  and  had  been  awake 
all  night.  Moreover,  she  was  crying. 

His  heart  throbbed  with  tender  pity.  He 
yearned  to  comfort  her,  to  assure  her  that 
whatever  was  wrong  must  eventually  be  made 
right.  Why,  from  the  crown  of  her  beautiful 
head  to  the  turned-up  toe  of  her  blue  Chinese 
slipper,  Edith  had  been  made  for  joy — and  for 
love. 

Out  of  the  darkness  came  a  sudden  mys 
terious  perception.  She  knew  she  had  awak 
ened  him,  and  had  smiled  at  the  knowledge. 
A  sense  of  weariness  quickly  followed,  then  a 
restful  silence  which  carried  no  thought  with 
it. 

He  lay  back  on  his  pillow  and  waited,  with 
his  eyes  closed,  until  he  felt  that  she  was 
asleep.  Then  he  slept  also. 


X 

a  OLittle  Brown  flDouse 

ROSEMARY  peered  into  the  letter  box  and 
saw  that  The  Household  Guardian  was 
there.  On  one  Thursday  it  had  failed  to 
appear  and  she  had  been  unable  to  convince 
Grandmother  of  her  entire  innocence  in  the 
matter.  Even  on  the  following  day,  when 
she  brought  it  home,  in  the  original  wrapping, 
she  felt  herself  regarded  with  secret  suspicion. 
As  it  never  had  failed  to  come  on  Thursday, 
why  should  it,  unless  Rosemary,  for  some 
reason  best  known  to  herself,  had  tampered 
with  the  United  States  Mail? 

There  was  also  a  letter,  and  Rosemary 
waited  eagerly  for  the  postmaster  to  finish 
weighing  out  two  pounds  of  brown  sugar  and 
five  cents'  worth  of  tea  for  old  Mrs.  Simms. 
She  pressed  her  nose  to  the  glass,  and  squinted, 
but  the  address  eluded  her.  Still,  she  was  sure 
it  was  for  her,  and,  very  probably,  from  Alden, 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  ten  days. 

She  felt  a  crushing  sense  of  disappointment 
when  she  saw  that  it  was  not  from  Alden,  but 


I38  dDaster  of  tbe  ti)ine\?aro 

was  addressed  in  an  unfamiliar  hand.  Re 
gardless  of  the  deference  she  was  accustomed 
to  accord  a  letter,  she  tore  it  open  hastily  and 
read: 

"MY  DEAR  ROSEMARY: 
"Can  you  come  to  tea  on  Saturday  afternoon 
about  four?    We  have  a  guest  whom  I  am 
sure  you  would  like  to  meet. 

"Affectionately,  your 

"MOTHER." 

The  words  were  formal  enough,  and  the 
quaint  stateliness  of  the  handwriting  con 
veyed  its  own  message  of  reserve  and  dis 
tance  but  the  signature  thrilled  her  through 
and  through.  "Mother!"  she  repeated,  in  a 
whisper.  She  went  out  of  the  post-office 
blindly,  with  the  precious  missive  tightly 
clasped  in  her  trembling  hand. 

Would  she  go?  Of  course  she  would,  even 
though  it  meant  facing  Grandmother,  Aunt 
Matilda,  and  all  the  dogs  of  war. 

As  the  first  impulse  faded,  she  became 
more  cautious,  and  began  to  consider  ways 
and  means.  It  was  obviously  impossible  to 
wear  brown  gingham  or  brown  alpaca  to  a 
tea-party.  That  meant  that  she  must  some 
how  get  her  old  white  muslin  down  from  the 
attic,  iron  it,  mend  it,  and  freshen  it  up  as 
best  she  could.  She  had  no  doubt  of  her 


H  Xittle  Brown  /iDouse 


ability  to  do  it,  for  both  old  ladies  were  sound 
sleepers,  and  Rosemary  had  learned  to  step 
lightly,  in  bare  feet,  upon  secret  errands 
around  the  house  at  night. 

But  how  could  she  hope  to  escape,  unob 
served,  on  Saturday  afternoon?  And,  even  if 
she  managed  to  get  away,  what  of  the  inevitable 
return?  Why  not,  for  once,  make  a  bold 
declaration  of  independence,  and  say,  calmly: 
"Grandmother,  I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Marsh's 
Saturday  afternoon  at  four,  and  I  am  going  to 
wear  my  white  dress."  Not  "May  I  go?"  or 
"May  I  wear  it?"  but  "I  am  going,"  and  "I 
am  going  to  wear  it." 

At  the  thought  Rosemary  shuddered  and 
her  soul  quailed  within  her.  She  knew  that 
she  would  never  dare  to  do  it.  At  the  critical 
moment  her  courage  would  fail  her,  and  she 
would  stay  at  home.  Perhaps  she  could  wear 
the  brown  gingham  if  it  were  fresh  and  clean, 
and  she  pinned  at  her  throat  a  bow  of  the 
faded  pink  ribbon  she  had  found  in  her  mother's 
trunk  in  the  attic.  And,  if  it  should  happen 
to  rain  Saturday,  or  even  look  like  rain,  so 
much  the  better.  Anyhow,  she  would  go, 
even  in  the  brown  gingham.  So  much  she 
decided  upon. 

Yet,  with  all  her  heart,  she  longed  for  the 
white  dress,  the  only  thing  she  had  which  even 
approached  daintiness.  An  old  saying  came 
back  to  her  in  which  she  had  found  consola- 


140 


/Caster  of  tbe 


tion  many  times  before.  "When  an  insur 
mountable  obstacle  presents  itself,  sometimes 
there  is  a  way  around  it."  And,  again,  "Take 
one  step  forward  whenever  there  is  a  foothold 
and  trust  to  God  for  the  next." 

That  night,  at  supper,  Aunt  Matilda  electri 
fied  Grandmother  with  a  bit  of  news  which  she 
had  jealously  kept  to  herself  all  day. 

"The  milkman  was  telling  me,"  she  re 
marked,  with  an  assumed  carelessness  which 
deceived  no  one,  "  that  there  's  company  up  to 
Marshs'." 

Grandmother  dropped  her  knife  and  fork 
with  a  sharp  clatter.  "You  don't  tell  me!" 
she  cried.  "Who  in  creation  is  it?" 

"I  was  minded  to  tell  you  before,"  Aunt 
Matilda  resumed,  with  tantalising  delibera 
tion,  "but  you  've  had  your  nose  in  that  fool 
paper  all  day,  and  whenever  I  spoke  to  you 
you  told  me  not  to  interrupt.  Literary  folks 
is  terrible  afraid  of  bein'  interrupted,  I  've 
heard,  so  I  let  you  alone." 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  was  anything  important," 
murmured  Grandmother,  apologetically. 

"  How  could  you  know,"  questioned  Matilda, 
logically,  "before  I  'd  told  you  what  it 
was  ?  " 

There  being  no  ready  answer  to  this,  Grand 
mother  responded  with  a  snort,  which  meant 
much  or  little,  as  one  might  choose.  A  dull 
red  burned  on  her  withered  cheeks  and  she  had 


H  Xittle  36rown  /Douse 


lost  interest  in  her  supper.  Only  Rosemary 
was  calm. 

"As  I  was  sayin',"  Matilda  went  on,  after 
an  aggravating  silence,  "there's  company  up 
to  MarshsY' 

"Seems  to  me,"  Grandmother  grunted, 
"that  she  'd  better  be  payin'  up  the  calls  she 
owes  in  the  neighbourhood  than  entertainin' 
strangers."  This  shaft  pierced  a  vulnerable 
spot  in  Matilda's  armour  of  self-esteem,  for 
she  still  smarted  under  Madame  Marsh's 
neglect. 

"The  milkman  says  it 's  a  woman.  Her 
name  's  Mis'  Lee.  She  come  a  week  ago  and 
last  Saturday  she  was  to  the  post-office,  and  up 
the  river-road  all  the  afternoon  in  that  old 
phaeton  with  young  Marsh." 

Rosemary's  heart  paused  for  a  moment, 
then  resumed  its  beat. 

"She  's  a  play-actin'  person,  he  says,  or  at 
any  rate  she  looks  like  one,  which  amounts 
to  the  same  thing.  She  's  brought  four  trunks 
with  her — one  respectable  trunk,  same  as  any 
body  might  have,  one  big  square  trunk  that 
looks  like  a  dog-house,  and  another  big  trunk 
that  a  person  could  move  into  if  there  was  n't 
no  other  house  handy,  and  another  trunk  that 
was  packed  so  full  that  it  had  bulged  out  on  all 
sides  but  one,  and  when  Jim  and  Dick  took 
it  up  into  the  attic  there  was  n't  but  one  side 
they  could  set  it  on.  And  whiles  they  was 


142 


flDaster  of  tbe 


Servant's 

iSoeetp 


findin'  a  place  to  set  it,  she  and  young  Marsh 
was  laughin'  down  in  the  hall." 

"Who  is  she?"  demanded  Grandmother. 
"Where  did  she  come  from?  How  long  is  she 
goin'  to  stay?  Where 'd  Mis'  Marsh  get  to 
know  her?" 

"The  milkman's  wife  was  over  last  Mon 
day,"  Matilda  continued,  "to  help  with  the 
washin',  and  she  says  she  never  see  such 
clothes  in  all  her  born  days  nor  so  many  of  'em. 
They  was  mostly  lace,  and  she  had  two  white 
petticoats  in  the  wash.  The  stockin's  was  all 
silk,  and  she  said  she  never  see  such  night 
gowns.  They  was  fine  enough  for  best  summer 
dresses,  and  all  lace,  and  one  of  'em  had  a 
blue  satin  bow  on  it,  and  what  was  strangest 
of  all  was  that  there  wa'  n't  noplace  to  get  into 
'em.  They  was  made  just  like  stockin's  with 
no  feet  to  'em,  and  if  she  wore  'em,  she  'd 
have  to  crawl  in,  either  at  the  bottom  or  the 
top.  She  said  she  never  see  the  beat  of  those 
nightgowns." 

"Do  tell!"  ejaculated  Grandmother. 

"And  her  hair  looks  as  if  she  ain't  never 
combed  it  since  the  day  she  was  born.  The 
milkman  says  it  looks  about  like  a  hen's  nest 
and  is  pretty  much  the  same  colour.  He  see 
her  on  the  porch  for  a  minute,  and  all  he  could 
look  at  was  that  hair.  And  when  he  passed  'em 
on  the  river-road  after  they  come  from  the 
post-office,  he  could  n't  see  her  hair  at  all, 


H  Xittle  Brown  flDouse 


143 


cause  she  had  on  a  big  hat  tied  on  with  some 

thin   light   blue   stuff.     He   reckoned   maybe     Qt*^ 

her  hair  was  a  wig." 

"  I  'd  know  whether  't  was  a  wig  or  not,  if  I 
saw  it  once,"  Grandmother  muttered.  "There 
ain't  nobody  that  can  fool  me  about  false 
hair." 

"  I  guess  you  ain't  likely  to  see  it,"  retorted 
Matilda,  viciously.  "All  we'll  ever  hear 
about  her  '11  be  from  the  milk  folks." 

"Maybe  I  could  see  her,"  ventured  Rose 
mary,  cautiously.  "  I  could  put  on  my  best 
white  dress  and  go  to  see  Mrs.  Marsh,  to 
morrow  or  next  day,  after  I  get  the  work  done 
up.  I  could  find  out  who  she  was  and  all 
about  her,  and  come  back  and  tell  you." 

For  an  instant  the  stillness  was  intense, 
then  both  women  turned  to  her.  "You!" 
they  said,  scornfully,  in  the  same  breath. 

"  Yes,"  said  Grandmother,  after  an  impres 
sive  pause,  "  I  reckon  you  '11  be  puttin'  on 
your  best  dress  and  goin'  up  to  Marshs'  to  see 
a  play-actin'  woman." 

"  You  'd  have  lots  to  do,"  continued  Aunt 
Matilda,  "goin'  to  see  a  woman  what  ain't  seen 
fit  to  return  a  call  your  Aunt  made  on  her 
more  'n  five  years  ago." 

"Humph!"  Grandmother  snorted. 

"The  very  idea,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Matilda. 

What  had  seemed  to  Rosemary  like  an  open 
path  had  merely  led  to  an  insurmountable 


144 


/iDastet  ot  tbe 


stone  wall.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  good- 
humouredly.  "Very  well,"  she  said,  "I'm 
sure  I  don't  care.  Suit  yourselves." 

She  began  to  clear  away  the  supper  dishes, 
for,  though  the  others  had  eaten  little,  they 
had  apparently  finished.  Out  in  the  kitchen, 
she  sang  as  she  worked,  and  only  a  close 
observer  would  have  detected  a  tremor  in 
the  sweet,  untrained,  soprano.  "Anyway," 
thought  Rosemary,  "  I  '11  put  on  the  flat- 
irons." 

The  fire  she  had  built  would  not  go  out  for 
some  hours.  She  had  used  coal  ruinously  in 
order  to  heat  the  oven  for  a  special  sort  of  tea- 
biscuit  of  which  Grandmother  was  very  fond. 
While  the  fire  was  going  out,  it  would  heat  the 
irons,  and  then 

"One  step  forward  whenever  there  is  a  foot 
hold,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  trust  to  God 
for  the  next." 

That  night,  as  fortune  would  have  it, 
Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda  elected  to  sit 
up  late,  solving  a  puzzle  in  The  Household 
Guardian  for  which  a  Mission  rocker  was 
offered  as  a  prize.  It  was  long  past  ten 
o'clock  when  they  gave  it  up. 

"1  dunno,"  yawned  Aunt  Matilda,  "as  I  'm 
partial  to  rockers." 

"Leastways,"  continued  Grandmother,  ris 
ing  to  put  her  spectacles  on  the  mantel,  "to 
the  kind  they  give  missionaries.  I  've  seen 


B  Xittle  Brown  jflDouse 


the  things  they  send  missionaries  more  'n 
once,  in  my  time." 

By  eleven,  the  household  slept,  except 
Rosemary,  As  silently  as  a  ghost,  she  made 
her  way  to  the  attic,  brought  down  the  clean 
white  muslin,  and,  with  irons  scarcely  hot 
enough,  pressed  it  into  some  semblance  of 
freshness.  She  hung  it  in  her  closet,  under  the 
brown  alpaca  of  two  seasons  past,  and  went 
to  sleep,  peacefully. 

Bright  and  early  the  next  morning  the  Idea 
presented  itself.  Why  not  put  on  the  white 
gown  with  one  of  the  brown  ones  over  it  and 
take  off  the  brown  one  when  she  got  there? 
Mrs.  Marsh  would  understand. 

Rosemary  laughed  happily  as  she  climbed 
out  of  bed.  Surely  there  was  more  than  one 
way  of  cheating  Fate!  That  afternoon,  while 
the  others  took  their  accustomed  "forty 
winks,"  she  brought  down  the  faded  pink 
ribbon  that  had  been  her  mother's.  That 
night  she  discovered  that  neither  of  the 
brown  ginghams  would  go  over  the  white 
muslin,  as  they  had  shrunk  when  they  were 
washed,  but  that  the  alpaca  would.  There 
was  not  even  a  bit  of  white  showing  beneath 
the  skirt,  as  she  had  discovered  by  tilting  her 
mirror  perilously  forward. 

She  was  up  early  Saturday  morning,  and 
baked  and  swept  and  dusted  to  such  good  pur 
pose  that,  by  three  o'clock,  there  was  nothing 


146  flDaster  of  tbe  Wne^aro 

tmngfn      more    that  anyone  could   think    of    for  her 

to  do  until  it  was  time  to  get  supper.     She 
Calance 

had  put  the  white  gown  on  under  the  alpaca 

when  she  dressed  in  the  morning,  as  it  was  the 
only  opportunity  of  which  she  was  at  all  sure. 

Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda  were  nod 
ding  in  their  chairs.  The  kitchen  clock  struck 
the  half  hour.  Finally,  Rosemary  spoke. 

"Is  there  anything  either  of  you  would  like 
me  to  get  at  the  store?" 

"No,"  said  Grandmother. 

"No,"  echoed  Aunt  Matilda.  Then  she 
added:  "Why?  Were  you  thinkin'  of  goin' 
out?" 

"I  thought  I  would,"  said  Rosemary,  with 
a  yawn,  "if  there  was  nothing  more  for  me  to 
do.  It's  such  a  nice  day,  and  I'd  like  a 
breath  of  fresh  air." 

For  a  moment,  Fate  hung  in  the  balance, 
then  Grandmother  said,  generously:  "Go 
on,  Rosemary,  and  get  all  the  fresh  air  you 
want.  You  've  worked  better  'n  common 
to-day." 

"  I  should  think  you  'd  be  tired  enough  to 
stay  home  and  rest,"  Aunt  Matilda  com 
mented,  fretfully,  but  the  door  had  closed  on 
the  last  word,  and  Rosemary  was  gone. 

"But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades  to-day; 
So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my  kiss 
Creep,  as  the  Spring  now  thrills  through  every  spray 
Up  your  warm  throat  to  your  warm  lips — ". 


H  Xittle  JSrown  fl&ouse 


The  beautiful  words  sang  themselves  through 
her  memory  as  she  sped  on.  She  had  forgot 
ten  about  the  guest  for  the  moment,  remem 
bering  with  joy  that  almost  hurt,  the  one 
word  "Mother,"  and  the  greater,  probable 
joy  that  overshadowed  it.  Of  course  he  would 
be  there!  Why  not,  when  he  knew  she  was 
coming  to  tea — and  when  they  had  a  guest, 
too?  The  girl's  heart  beat  tumultuously  as 
she  neared  the  house,  for  through  it,  in  great 
tides,  surged  fear,  and  ecstasy — and  love. 

Madame  herself  opened  the  door.  "Come 
in,  dear!" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Marsh!    Please,  just  a  minute!" 

"Mrs.  Marsh  again?  I  thought  we  were 
mother  and  daughter.  Edith!"  she  called. 
Then,  in  the  next  moment,  Rosemary  found 
herself  in  the  living-room,  offering  a  rough, 
red  hand  to  an  exquisite  creature  who  seemed 
a  blurred  mass  of  pale  green  and  burnished 
gold,  redolent  of  violets,  and  who  murmured, 
in  a  beautifully  modulated  contralto:  "How 
do  you  do,  Miss  Starr!  I  am  very  glad  to 
meet  you." 

The  consciousness  of  the  white  gown  under 
neath  filled  Rosemary's  eyes  with  tears  of 
mortification,  which  Madame  hastened  to 
explain.  "It's  raw  and  cold  still,"  she  said, 
"in  spite  of  the  calendar.  These  keen  Spring 
winds  make  one's  eyes  water.  Here,  my  dear, 
have  a  cup  of  tea." 


148 


/Raster  of  tbe 


Bn 

tluconis 

fortablc 

afternoon 


Rosemary  took  the  cup  with  hands  that 
trembled,  and,  while  she  sipped  the  amber 
fragrance  of  it,  struggled  hard  for  self-posses 
sion.  Madame  ignored  her  for  the  moment 
and  chatted  pleasantly  with  Edith.  Then 
Alden  came  in  and  shook  hands  kindly  with 
Rosemary,  though  he  had  been  secretly 
annoyed  when  he  learned  she  was  coming. 
Afterward,  he  had  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour 
with  himself  while  he  endeavoured  to  find  out 
why.  At  last  he  had  shifted  the  blame  to 
Edith,  deciding  that  she  would  think  Rose 
mary  awkward  and  countrified,  and  that  it 
would  not  be  pleasant  for  him  to  stand  by  and 
see  it. 

However,  the  most  carping  critic  could  have 
found  no  fault  with  Edith's  manner.  If  she 
felt  any  superiority,  she  did  not  show  it.  She 
accorded  to  Rosemary  the  same  perfect 
courtesy  she  showed  Madame,  and,  apparently, 
failed  to  notice  that  the  girl  had  not  spoken 
since  the  moment  of  introduction. 

She  confined  the  conversation  wholly  to 
things  Rosemary  must  have  been  familiar 
with — the  country,  the  cool  winds  that  some 
times  came  when  one  thought  it  was  almost 
Summer,  the  perfect  blend  of  Madame's  tea, 
the  quaint  Chinese  pot,  and  the  bad  manners 
of  the  canary,  who  seemed  to  take  a  fiendish 
delight  in  scattering  the  seed  that  was  given 
him  to  eat. 


H  Xfttle  38rown  flDouse 


Rosemary  merely  sat  in  the  corner,  tried  to 
smile,  and  said,  as  required,  "Yes,"  or  "No." 
Alden,  pitying  her  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart  and  yet  secretly  ashamed,  tried  unsuc 
cessfully,  now  and  then,  to  draw  her  into  the 
conversation. 

Edith  drained  her  cup,  affected  disappoint 
ment  at  finding  no  stray  leaves  by  which  she 
might  divine  the  future,  then  went  to  Rose 
mary,  and  took  the  empty  cup  which  she  sat 
holding  with  pathetic  awkwardness. 

"You  have  none,  either,  Miss  Starr,"  she 
said,  sweetly.  "Suppose  we  try  the  crystal 
ball?  I  've  been  wanting  to  do  it  ever  since  I 
came,  but  was  afraid  to  venture,  alone." 

Rosemary,  her  senses  whirling,  followed  her 
over  to  the  table,  where  the  ball  lay  on  its  bit 
of  black  velvet. 

"How  do  you  do  it?"  asked  Edith,  of 
Madame. 

"Just  get  into  a  good  light,  shade  your  eyes, 
and  look  in." 

"That 's  easy,"  Edith  said.  She  bent  over 
the  table,  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  white, 
beautifully-kept  hands,  and  peered  into  the 
crystalline  depths.  "There  's  nothing  here," 
she  continued,  somewhat  fretfully,  to  Alden, 
"except  you.  By  some  trick  of  reflection,  I 
could  see  you  as  plainly  as  though  it  were  a 
mirror.  You  try,  Miss  Starr." 

Madame's  heart  contracted  suddenly  as  she 


150  flDaster  of  tbe  DtneparO 

remembered  the  day  she  had  looked  into  the 
crystal  ball,  and  had  seen  not  only  Alden,  but 
a  woman  with  flaming  red  hair,  clasped  closely 
in  his  arms.  "It's  all  nonsense,"  she  tried  to 
say,  but  her  stiff  lips  would  not  move. 

Rosemary  left  the  table  and  went  back  to 
her  corner.  "What  did  you  see?"  queried 
Edith.  "Did  you  have  any  better  luck  than 
1  did?" 

"No,"  Rosemary  answered,  with  a  degree 
more  of  self-possession  than  she  had  shown 
previously.  "There  was  nothing  there  but  a 
black  cloud." 

The  task  of  keeping  up  the  conversation  fell 
to  Edith  and  Alden,  for  Madame  had  uncon 
sciously  withdrawn  into  herself  as  some  small 
animals  shut  themselves  into  their  shells.  All 
were  relieved,  though  insensibly,  when  Rose 
mary  said  she  must  go. 

Alden  went  into  the  hall  with  her,  to  help 
her  with  her  coat  and  hat,  and,  as  opportunity 
offered,  to  kiss  her  twice,  shyly,  on  her  cheek. 
He  wanted  to  go  part  way  home  with  her,  but 
Rosemary  refused. 

"You'd  better  not,"  she  said,  "but  thank 
you  just  as  much." 

"Won't  you  even  let  me  go  to  the  corner 
with  you?" 

"No,"  said  Rosemary,  with  trembling  lips, 
"please  don't." 

So  she  went  on  alone,  while  Alden  returned 


H  Xittle  Brown  /Douse 


to  the  living-room.  Edith  was  saying  to 
Madame:  "Poor  little  brown  mouse!  How 
one  longs  to  take  a  girl  like  that  and  give  her 
all  the  pretty  things  she  needs!" 

Madame  took  the  crystal  ball,  wrapped  it  in 
its  bit  of  velvet,  and  put  it  on  the  highest  shelf 
of  the  bookcase,  rolling  it  back  behind  the 
books,  out  of  sight. 

"Why  do  you  do  that,  Mother?"  asked 
Alden,  curiously.  "Because,"  returned  Ma 
dame,  grimly,  "it's  all  nonsense.  I  won't 
have  it  around  any  more." 

Alden  laughed,  but  Edith  went  on,  thought 
fully:  "I  'd  like  to  do  her  hair  for  her,  and 
see  that  all  her  under-things  were  right,  and 
then  put  her  into  a  crepe  gown  of  dull  blue— 
a  sort  of  Chinese  blue,  with  a  great  deal  of 
deep-toned  lace  for  trimming,  and  give  her  a 
topaz  pendant  set  in  dull  silver,  and  a  big 
picture  hat  of  ecru  net,  with  a  good  deal  of  the 
lace  on  it,  and  one  long  plume,  a  little  lighter 
than  the  gown." 

"I  would,  too,"  said  Alden,  smiling  at 
Edith.  He  did  not  in  the  least  know  what 
she  was  talking  about,  but  he  knew  that  she 
felt  kindly  toward  Rosemary,  and  was  grateful 
for  it. 

Rosemary,  at  home,  went  about  her  duties 
mechanically.  There  was  a  far-away  look  in 
her  eyes  which  did  not  escape  the  notice  of 
Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda,  but  they 


152  /toaster  of  tbe 


tieartc  forebore  to  comment  upon  it  as  long  as  she 
performed  her  tasks  acceptably.  At  supper 
she  ate  very  little,  and  that  little  was  as  dust 
and  ashes  in  her  mouth. 

Before  her,  continually,  was  a  heart-break 
ing  contrast.  She,  awkward,  ugly,  ill  at  ease 
in  brown  alpaca  made  according  to  the  fashion 
of  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  and  Mrs.  Lee, 
beautiful,  exquisite>  dainty  to  her  finger-tips, 
richly  dowered  with  every  conceivable  thing 
that  she  herself  lacked. 

"Mother,"  said  Rosemary,  to  herself.  "Oh, 
Mother!"  She  did  not  mean  Mrs.  Marsh,  but 
the  pretty,  girlish  mother  who  had  died  in  giv 
ing  birth  to  her.  She  would  have  been  like 
Mrs.  Lee,  or  prettier,  and  she  would  have 
understood. 

Her  heart  smarted  and  burned  and  ached, 
but  she  got  through  the  evening  somehow, 
and,  at  the  appointed  time,  stumbled  up  to 
her  own  room. 

Why  should  she  care  because  another 
woman  was  prettier  than  she,  knew  more,  and 
had  more  ?  Were  there  not  many  such  in  the 
world,  and  had  she  not  Alden?  Accidentally, 
Rosemary  came  upon  the  cause  of  her  pain. 

Of  course  she  had  Alden,  for  always — 
unless — then,  once  more,  reassurance  came. 
"She's  married,"  said  Rosemary,  smiling 
back  at  the  white,  frightened  face  she  saw  in 
the  mirror.  "She  's  married ! " 


H  Xittle  Brown  flDouse 


153 


The  thought  carried  with  it  so  much  com 
fort  that  presently  Rosemary  slept  peace 
fully,  exhausted,  as  she  was,  by  the  stress 
of  the  afternoon.  "She's  married,"  was  her 
last  conscious  thought,  and  a  smile  lingered 
upon  her  lips  as  she  slept.  She  had  not  enough 
worldly  wisdom  to  know  that,  other  things 
being  equal,  a  married  woman  may  be  a  dan 
gerous  rival,  having  the  unholy  charm  of  the 
unattainable,  and  the  sanction  of  another 
man's  choice. 


tTbe 

Comforto 
ing 

"Cbougbt 


154 


Hwahe  (n 

tbe  TUabt 


XI 


Gbe  Ibour  of  tbe  (Turning  TOgbt 

THE  darkness  was  vibrant,  keen,  alive. 
It  throbbed  with  consciousness,  with 
mysterious  fibres  of  communication.  There 
was  no  sense  of  a  presence  in  the  room,  nor 
even  the  possibility  of  a  presence.  It  was 
vague,  abstract,  yet  curiously  definite. 

Edith  woke  from  a  troubled  dream  with  a 
start.  For  a  moment  she  lay  quietly  and 
listened,  not  afraid,  but  interested,  as  though 
upon  the  threshold  of  some  new  experience. 
The  scurrying  feet  of  mice  made  a  ghostly 
patter  in  the  attic,  above  her  room,  and  a 
vagrant  wind,  in  passing,  tapped  at  her  win 
dow  with  the  fairy-like  fingers  of  the  vine 
that  clung  to  the  wall. 

Otherwise  all  was  still,  and  yet  the  darkness 
trembled  with  expectancy.  Something  hither 
to  unknown  seemed  to  have  entered  her  con 
sciousness,  some  thought,  emotion,  instinct, 
or  what?  Wide  awake,  staring  into  space,  she 
lay  there,  wondering,  waiting,  not  in  the  least 
frightened,  but  assured  of  shelter  and  of  peace. 


"fcour  ot  tbe  turning  fligbt  155 


Gradually  she  had  lost  consciousness  of  her  anotbec 
body.  She  had  relaxed  completely  and  her 
mind  soared,  free.  She  moved  one  foot, 
cautiously,  to  see  whether  her  body  was  still 
there,  and  smiled  when  she  was  reassured  by 
the  cool  smoothness  of  the  linen  sheet,  and  the 
other  warm  little  foot  she  touched  in  moving. 

Somewhere,  in  this  same  darkness,  was 
another  personality.  Of  so  much  she  event 
ually  became  sure.  It  was  not  in  the  room, 
perhaps  not  even  in  the  house,  but  for  someone 
else,  somewhere,  was  this  same  sense  —  of 
communication?  No,  but  rather  the  possibil 
ity  of  it. 

Someone  else  had  also  lost  consciousness 
of  the  body.  Another  mind,  released  for  the 
moment  from  its  earthly  prison,  sought  com 
munion  with  hers.  Was  this  death,  and  had 
she  wakened  in  another  world?  She  moved 
her  foot  again,  pressed  her  hand  to  the  warm 
softness  of  her  breast,  felt  her  breath  come 
and  go,  and  even  the  steady  beating  of  her 
heart.  Not  death,  then,  only  a  pause,  in 
which  for  once  the  body,  clamorous  and 
imperious  with  its  thousand  needs,  had  given 
way  to  the  soul. 

The  curious  sense  of  another  personality 
persisted.  Was  this  other  person  dead,  and 
striving  mutely  for  expression?  No,  surely 
not,  for  this  other  mind  was  on  the  same  plane 
as  hers,  subject  to  the  same  conditions.  Not 


i56  jflDaster  of  tbe  Wnegarfc 

H«ew  disembodied  entirely,  but  only  relaxed,  as 
she  was,  this  other  personality  had  wakened 
and  found  itself  gloriously  free. 

A  perception  of  fineness  followed.  Not 
everyone  was  capable  of  this,  and  the  convic 
tion  brought  a  pleasant  sense  of  superiority. 
Above  the  sordid  world,  in  some  higher  realm 
of  space  and  thought,  they  two  had  met,  and 
saluted  one  another. 

For  the  first  time  Edith  thought  of  her 
body  as  something  separate  from  herself, 
and  in  the  light  of  a  necessary — or  unnecessary 
— evil.  This  new  self  neither  hungered  nor 
thirsted  nor  grew  weary;  it  knew  neither  cold 
nor  heat  nor  illness;  pain,  like  a  fourth 
dimension,  was  out  of  its  comprehension,  it 
required  neither  clothes  nor  means  of  trans 
portation,  it  simply  went,  as  the  wind  might, 
by  its  own  power,  when  and  where  it  chose. 

Whose  mind  was  it?  Was  it  someone  she 
knew,  or  someone  she  was  yet  to  meet  ?  And 
in  what  bodily  semblance  did  it  dwell,  when 
it  was  housed  in  its  prison  ?  Was  it  a  woman, 
or  a  man?  Not  a  woman — Edith  instantly 
dismissed  the  idea,  for  this  sense  of  another 
personality  carried  with  it  not  the  feeling  of 
duality  or  likeness,  but  of  difference,  of  divine 
completion. 

Some  man  she  knew,  or  whom  she  was  to 
know,  freed  for  the  moment  from  his  earthly 
environment,  roamed  celestial  ways  with  her. 


TTbe  1bour  of  tbe  Uurnina 


157 


She  was  certain  that  it  was  not  lasting,  that, 
at  the  best,  it  could  be  of  very  brief  duration, 
and  this  fact  of  impermanence  was  the  very 
essence  of  its  charm,  like  life  itself. 

The  clock  downstairs  began  to  strike— one, 
two,  three — four.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  night 
when  life  is  at  its  lowest,  the  point  on  the 
flaming  arc  of  human  existence  where  it 
touches  the  shadow  of  the  unknown,  softening 
into  death  or  brightening  into  life  according 
to  the  swing  of  the  pendulum.  Then,  if  ever, 
the  mind  and  body  would  be  apart,  Edith 
thought,  for  when  the  physical  forces  sink,  the 
spirit  must  rise  to  keep  the  balance  true. 

Who  was  the  man?  Her  husband?  No, 
for  they  were  too  far  apart  to  meet  like  this. 
She  idly  went  over  the  list  of  her  men  ac 
quaintances — old  schoolmates,  friends  of  her 
husband's,  husbands  of  her  friends,  as  one 
might  call  the  roll  of  an  assembly,  expecting 
someone  to  rise  and  answer  "Here." 

Yet  it  was  all  in  vain,  though  she  felt  her 
self  on  the  right  track  and  approaching  a 
definite  solution.  The  darkness  clung  about 
her  like  a  living  thing.  It  throbbed  as  the 
air  may  when  a  wireless  instrument  answers 
another,  leagues  away;  it  was  as  eloquent  of 
communication  as  a  network  of  telephone 
and  telegraph  wires,  submerged  in  midnight, 
yet  laden  with  portent  of  life  and  death. 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  straining  every  nerve 


IQbotOag 
tbe  /Dan? 


158  /IDaster  ot  tbe 


to  the  point  where  all  senses  unite  in  one. 
"Who  are  you?"  Her  lips  did  not  move, 
but  the  thought  seemed  to  have  the  sound  of 
thunder  in  its  imperious  demand.  Tangled 
fibres  of  communication  noiselessly  wove 
themselves  through  the  darkness,  and  again 
all  her  soul  merged  itself  into  one  question  — 
"  Who  ?  For  God's  sake,  who  ?  " 

Then,  after  a  tense  instant  of  waiting,  the 
answer  flashed  upon  her,  vivid  as  lightning: 
"Alden  Marsh!" 

And  swiftly,  as  though  in  response  to  a  call, 
a  definite,  conscious  thought  from  the  other 
personality  presented  itself:  "Yes?  What 
would  you  have  of  me?" 

Edith  lay  back  among  her  pillows,  as  the 
clock  struck  the  half  hour.  The  body,  as 
though  resentful  of  denial,  urged  itself  swiftly 
upon  her  now.  Her  heart  beat  tumultuously, 
her  hands  shook,  she  thrilled  from  head  to 
foot  with  actual  physical  pain.  The  darkness 
no  longer  seemed  alive,  but  negative  and  dead, 
holding  somewhere  in  its  merciful  depths  the 
promise  of  rest. 

Utterly  exhausted,  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
slept,  to  be  roused  by  a  tap  at  her  door. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  drowsily,  "come    in!" 

Madame  came  in,  pulled  up  the  shades  and 
flooded  the  room  with  sunshine.  "  I  'm  sorry 
if  I  've  disturbed  you,  dear,  but  I  was  afraid 
you  were  ill.  I  've  been  here  twice  before." 


1bour  ot  tbe  burning  ttfgbt 


Edith  sat  up  and  rubbed  her  eyes.  "What 
time  is  it?" 

"Half-past  nine." 

"Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry!  You  mustn't  spoil  me 
this  way,  for  I  do  want  to  get  up  to  breakfast. 
Why  did  n't  you  call  me?" 

Madame  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed 
and  patted  Edith's  outstretched  hand  with 
affectionate  reassurance.  "  You  're  to  do  just 
as  you  please,"  she  said,  "but  I  was  beginning 
to  worry  a  bit,  for  you  've  been  the  soul  of 
punctuality." 

"Did—  Edith  closed  her  lips  firmly  upon 
the  instinctive  question,  "Did  he  miss  me?" 
She  dismissed  it  as  the  mere  vapouring  of  a 
vacant  brain. 

"Did  what?"  asked  Madame,  Jielpfully. 

"Did  you  miss  me?" 

"Of  course.  Alden  did  too.  The  last 
thing  he  said  before  he  went  to  school  was 
that  he  hoped  you  were  not  ill." 

"That  was  nice  of  him."  Edith  put  a  small 
pink  foot  out  of  bed  on  the  other  side  and 
gazed  at  it  pensively.  Madame  laughed. 

"I  don't  believe  you've  grown  up,"  she 
said.  "  You  remind  me  of  a  small  child,  who 
has  just  discovered  her  toes.  Do  you  want 
your  breakfast  up  here?" 

"No,  I  '11  come  down.  Give  me  half  an 
hour  and  I  '11  appear  before  you,  clothed  and 
in  my  right  mind,  with  as  humble  an  apology 


i6o 


flDaster  of  tbe  tittneparo 


Call  of  tbc 

TOlanl>ers 

lust 


for  my  sins  as  I  'm  able  to  compose  in  the 
meantime." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  appearing 
promptly  at  the  time  she  had  set,  and  dressed 
for  the  street.  After  doing  justice  to  a  hearty 
breakfast,  she  said  that  she  was  going  out  for 
a  walk  and  probably  would  not  be  back  to 
luncheon. 

"My  dear!"  exclaimed  Madame.  "You 
must  n't  do  that.  I  '11  have  luncheon  kept 
for  you." 

"No,  please  don't,  for  I  really  shan't  want 
any.  Did  n't  you  observe  my  breakfast? 
Even  a  piano-mover  could  n't  think  of  eating 
again  before  seven,  so  let  me  go  a-gypsying 
till  sunset." 

Madame  nodded  troubled  acquiescence,  and, 
with  a  laugh,  Edith  kissed  her  good-bye. 
"I  'm  subject  to  the  Wander-lust,"  she  said, 
r'and  when  the  call  comes,  I  have  to  go.  It 's 
in  my  blood  to-day,  so  farewell  for  the 
present." 

Madame  watched  her  as  she  went  down 
the  street,  the  golden  quill  on  her  green  hat 
bidding  jaunty  defiance  to  the  wind.  As  she 
had  said,  she  felt  the  call  at  times,  and  had 
to  yield  to  its  imperative  summons,  but  to-day 
it  was  her  soul  that  craved  the  solace  of  the 
open  spaces  and  the  wind-swept  fields. 

As  she  dressed,  she  had  tried  to  dismiss 
last  night's  experience  as  a  mere  fantasy  of 


fbour  of  tbe  Uurning 


sleep,  or,  if  not  an  actual  dream,  some  vision 
hailing  from  the  borderland  of  consciousness, 
at  the  point  where  the  senses  merge.  Yet, 
even  as  she  argued  with  herself,  she  felt  the 
utter  futility  of  it,  and  knew  her  denials  were 
vain  in  the  face  of  truth. 

She  dreaded  the  necessity  of  meeting  Alden 
again,  then  made  a  wry  face  at  her  own 
foolishness.  "Ridiculous,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  "preposterous,  absurd!"  No  matter  what 
her  own  nightmares  might  be,  he  slept  soundly 
— of  course  he  did.  How  could  healthy 
youth  with  a  clear  conscience  do  otherwise? 

For  an  hour  or  more,  she  kept  to  the  streets 
©f  the  village,  with  the  sublime  unconscious 
ness  of  the  city-bred,  too  absorbed  in  her  own 
thoughts  to  know  that  she  was  stared  at  and 
freely  commented  upon  by  those  to  whom  a 
stranger  was  a  source  of  excitement.  Her 
tailored  gown,  of  dark  green  broadcloth,  the 
severe  linen  shirtwaist,  and  her  simple  hat, 
were  subjects  of  conversation  that  night  in 
more  than  one  humble  home,  fading  into 
insignificance  only  before  her  radiant  hair. 
The  general  opinion  was  that  it  must  be  a 
wig,  or  the  untoward  results  of  some  experi 
ment  with  hair-dye,  probably  the  latter,  for, 
as  the  postmaster's  wife  said,  "nobody  would 
buy  a  wig  of  that  colour." 

The  school  bell  rang  for  dismissal,  and  filled 
her  with  sudden  panic.  After  walking  through 


162 


dDaster  of  tbe  Dineparfc 


ube 
tbclRefc 


the  village  all  the  morning  to  escape  luncheon 
with  Alden,  it  would  be  disagreeable  to  meet 
him  face  to  face  almost  at  the  schoolhouse 
door.  Turning  in  the  opposite  direction,  she 
walked  swiftly  until  she  came  to  a  hill,  upon 
which  an  irregular  path  straggled  half-heart 
edly  upward. 

So  Edith  climbed  the  Hill  of  the  Muses, 
pausing  several  times  to  rest.  When  she 
reached  the  top,  she  was  agreeably  surprised 
to  find  a  comfortable  seat  waiting  her,  even 
though  it  was  only  a  log  rolled  back  against 
two  trees.  She  sank  back  into  the  hollow, 
leaned  against  the  supporting  oak,  and  wiped 
her  flushed  face. 

Others  had  been  there  before  her,  evidently, 
for  the  turf  was  worn  around  the  log,  and 
there  were  even  hints  of  footprints  here  and 
there.  "Some  rural  trysting  place,  prob 
ably,"  she  thought,  then  a  gleam  of  scarlet 
caught  her  attention.  A  small  red  book  had 
fallen  into  the  crevice  between  the  log  and  the 
other  tree.  "The  House  of  Life,"  she  mur 
mured,  under  her  breath.  "Now,  who  in 
this  little  village  would — unless " 

The  book  bore  neither  name  nor  initials, 
but  almost  every  page  was  marked.  As  it 
happened,  most  of  them  were  favourite  pas 
sages  of  her  own.  "How  idyllic!"  she  mused; 
"a  pair  of  young  lovers  reading  Rossetti  on  a 
hill-top  in  Spring!  Could  anything  be  more 


ZTbe  f)our  of  tbe  burning 


pastoral?  I  '11  take  it  back  to  the  house  and 
tell  about  it  at  dinner." 

She  welcomed  it  as  a  sure  relief  from  a  pos 
sible  awkward  moment.  "I  knew  I  was 
right,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  turned  the 
pages.  "To-day  was  set  aside,  long  ago,  for 
me  to  go  a-gypsying." 

The  clear  air  of  the  heights  and  the  sunlit 
valley  beneath  her  gave  her  a  sense  of  pro 
portion  and  of  value  which  she  realised  she 
had  sadly  needed.  Free  from  the  annoyances 
of  her  daily  life,  she  could  look  back  upon  it 
with  due  perspective,  and  see  that  her  unhappi- 
ness  had  been  largely  caused  by  herself. 

"  I  can't  be  miserable,"  she  thought,  "unless 
I  'm  willing  to  be." 

She  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  heedless  of 
the  passing  hours.  She  was  roused  from  her 
reverie  by  a  muffled  footstep  and  an  involun 
tary  exclamation  of  astonishment. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Starr?"  said 
Edith,  kindly,  offering  a  well-gloved  hand. 
"Are  you  out  gypsying  too?" 

"  Yes,"  Rosemary  stammered.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  small  red  book  that  Mrs. 
Lee  held  in  her  other  hand. 

"See  what  I  found,"  Edith  went  on,  heed 
lessly.  "Rossetti's  House  of  Life,  up  here. 
Boy  Blue  must  have  brought  it  up  to  read  to 
Bo-Peep  in  the  intervals  of  shepherding. 
There  may  not  be  any  such  word  as  'shep- 


1 64  flDaster  ot  tbe 


herding,'  but  there  ought  to  be.  I  love  to 
make  words,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rosemary,  helplessly.  She 
had  thought  Alden  had  the  book,  but  had 
forgotten  to  make  sure,  and  now  the  most 
precious  hours  of  her  life  had  been  invaded 
and  her  shrines  laid  bare.  Was  it  not  enough 
for  this  woman  to  live  in  the  same  house  with 
Alden?  Need  she  take  possession  of  the  Hill 
of  the  Muses  and  the  little  book  which  had 
first  awakened  her,  then  brought  them  to 
gether?  Resentful  anger  burned  in  her  cheeks, 
all  the  more  pitiful  because  of  Mrs.  Lee's 
utter  unconsciousness,  and  the  impossibility 
of  reparation,  even  had  she  known. 

"Sit  down,"  Edith  suggested.  "You  must 
be  tired.  It 's  a  long  climb." 

"Did — did  you  come  up  here  to — to  meet 
anyone?"  The  suspicion  broke  hotly  from 
Rosemary's  pale  lips. 

Edith  might  have  replied  that  she  came  up 
to  avoid  meeting  anyone,  but  she  only  said, 
with  cool  astonishment:  "Why,  no.  Why 
should  I?" 

There  was  no  answer  to  that.  Indeed, 
thought  Rosemary,  floundering  helplessly  in 
a  sea  of  pain,  there  was  no  reason.  Was  she 
not  in  the  same  house  with  him,  day  in  and 
day  out? 

"She's  married,"  Rosemary  said  to  herself 
with  stern  insistence,  trying  to  find  comfort 


TTbe  "toour  of  tbe  turning  TRigbt 

in  the  thought,  but  comfort  strangely  failed 
now.  Another  suspicion  assailed  her  and  was 
instantly  put  into  headlong  speech.  "Is 
your  husband  dead,  or  are  you  divorced?" 

Mrs.  Lee  turned  quickly.  She  surveyed  the 
girl  calmly  for  an  instant,  entirely  unable  to 
translate  her  evident  confusion;  then  she  rose. 

"Neither,"  she  returned,  icily,  "and  if  there 
are  no  other  personal  questions  you  desire  to 
ask  me,  I  '11  go  back." 

Rosemary  kept  back  the  tears  until  Mrs. 
Lee  was  out  of  sight.  "She  's  married,"  she 
sobbed,  "and  he  is  n't  dead,  and  they  're  not 
divorced,  so  why — oh,  why?"  The  pain 
unreasonably  persisted,  taking  to  itself  -a  fresh 
hold.  She  had  offended  Mrs.  Lee  and  she 
would  tell  Alden,  and  Alden  would  be  dis 
pleased  and  would  never  forgive  her. 

If  she  were  to  run  after  her,  and  apologise, 
assuring  her  that  she  had  not  meant  the 
slightest  offence,  perhaps — .  She  stumbled  to 
her  feet,  but,  even  as  she  did  so,  she  knew 
that  it  was  too  late.  She  longed  with  all  the 
passion  of  her  desolate  soul  for  Alden  s  arms 
around  her,  for  only  the  touch  of  his  hand  or 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  saying:  "Rosemary! 
Rosemary  dear!"  But  it  was  too  late  for  that 
also — everything  came  too  late ! 

By  the  time  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill 
Edith  had  understood  and  pardoned  Rose- 


166 


/Caster  of  tbe  IDinegaro 


mary.  "Poor  child,"  she  thought.  "Think 
of  her  loving  him,  and  actually  being  jeal 
ous  of  me  !  And,  man-like,  of  course,  he  's 
never  noticed  it.  For  her  sake,  I  hope  he 
won't." 

She  waited  to  gather  a  spray  or  two  of  wild 
crab-apple  blossoms,  then  went  home.  She 
did  not  see  Alden,  but  stopped  to  exchange  a 
few  words  with  Madame,  then  went  on  up 
stairs.  The  long  walk  had  wearied  her,  but 
it  had  also  made  her  more  lovely.  After  an 
hour  of  rest  and  a  cool  shower,  she  was  ready 
to  dress  for  dinner. 

She  chose  a  dinner-gown  of  white  embroid 
ered  chiffon  that  she  had  not  yet  worn.  It 
was  cut  away  a  little  at  the  throat  and  the 
sleeves  came  to  the  elbow.  She  was  not  in  the 
mood  for  jewels,  but  she  clasped  a  string  of 
pearls  around  her  perfect  throat,  and  put  the 
crab-apple  blossoms  in  her  hair.  The  experi 
ment  was  rather  daring,  but  wholly  successful, 
as  she  took  care  to  have  green  leaves  between 
her  hair  and  the  blossoms. 

When  she  went  down,  Madame  and  Alden 
were  waiting  for  her,  Alden  in  evening  clothes 
as  usual  and  Madame  in  her  lavender  gown. 

"You  look  like  a  nymph  of  Botticelli's," 
commented  Alden,  with  a  smile.  There  was 
no  trace  of  confusion,  or  even  of  conscious 
ness  in  his  manner,  and,  once  again,  Edith 
reproached  herself  for  her  foolishness. 


Ubc  t>our  of  tbe  burning 


Dinner  was  cheerful,  though  not  lively. 
Once  or  twice,  Edith  caught  Alden  looking 
at  her  with  a  strange  expression  on  his  face. 
Madame  chattered  on  happily,  of  the  vineyard 
and  the  garden  and  the  small  household 
affairs  that  occupied  her  attention. 

Afterward,  Alden  read  the  paper  and  the 
other  two  played  cribbage.  It  was  only  a 
little  after  nine  when  Madame,  concealing  a 
yawn,  announced  that  she  was  tired  and  would 
go  to  bed,  if  she  might  be  excused. 

Edith  rose  with  alacrity.  "  I  '11  come,  too," 
she  said.  "It's  astonishing  how  sleepy  it 
makes  one  to  be  outdoors." 

"Don't,"  Madame  protested.  "We  must  n't 
leave  him  entirely  alone.  You  can  sleep  late 
to-morrow  morning  if  you  choose." 

"Please  don't  leave  me  alone,  Mrs.  Lee," 
pleaded  Alden,  rather  wickedly. 

"All  right,"  Edith  answered,  accepting  the 
inevitable  as  gracefully  as  she  might.  "Shall 
I  play  solitaire  while  you  read  the  paper?" 

"  If  you  like,"  he  replied. 

Madame  took  her  candle  and  bade  them 
good-night.  As  she  went  up-stairs,  Edith  said, 
with  a  pout:  "I  wish  I  were  going  to  bed 
too." 

"You  can't  sleep  all  the  time,"  he  reminded 
her.  The  paper  had  slipped  to  the  floor. 
"Mother  tells  me  that  you  slept  this  morning 
until  half-past  nine." 


168 


flDaster  of  tbe 


"Yes — but — ."  She  bit  her  lips  and  the 
colour  rose  to  her  temples.  She  hastily 
shuffled  the  cards  and  began  to  play  solitaire 
so  rapidly  that  he  wondered  whether  she  knew 
what  cards  she  was  playing. 

"But,"  he  said,  "you  did  n't  sleep  well  last 
night.  Was  that  what  you  were  going  to 
say?" 

Edith  dropped  her  cards,  and  looked  him 
straight  in  the  face.  "I  slept  perfectly,"  she 
lied.  "Did  n't  you?" 

"  I  slept  just  as  well  as  you  did,"  he  answered. 
She  thought  she  detected  a  shade  of  double 
meaning  in  his  tone. 

"  I  had  a  long  walk  to-day,"  she  went  on, 
"and  it  made  me  sleepy.  Look,"  she 
continued,  going  to  the  mantel  where  she 
had  left  the  book.  "See  what  I  found  on 
top  of  a  hill,  in  a  crevice  between  an  oak  and 
a  log  that  lay  against  it.  Do  you  think  some 
pair  of  rural  lovers  left  it  there?" 

"Possibly,"  he  replied.  If  the  sight  of  the 
book  he  had  loaned  Rosemary  awoke  any 
emotion,  or  even  a  memory,  he  did  not  show 
it.  "Sit  down,"  he  suggested,  imperturbably, 
"and  let  me  see  if  I  can't  find  a  sonnet 
that  fits  you.  Yes,  surely — here  it  is. 
Listen." 

She  rested  her  head  upon  her  hand  and 
turned  her  face  away  from  him.  In  his 
smooth,  well-modulated  voice,  he  read  : 


ZIbe  1bour  of  tbe  burning  IRigbt 


HER  GIFTS 

High  grace,  the  dower  of  queens;  and  therewithal 

Some  wood-born  wonder's  sweet  simplicity; 

A  glance  like  water  brimming  with  the  sky 
Or  hyacinth-light  where  forest  shadows  fall; 
Such  thrilling  pallor  of  cheek  as  doth  enthral 

The  heart;  a  mouth  whose  passionate  forms  imply 

All  music  and  all  silence  held  thereby; 
Deep  golden  locks,  her  sovereign  coronal; 
A  round  reared  neck,  meet  column  of  Love's  shrine 

To  cling  to  when  the  heart  takes  sanctuary; 

Hands  which  forever  at  Love's  bidding  be, 
And  soft-stirred  feet  still  answering  to  his  sign  :- 

These  are  her  gifts,  as  tongue  may  tell  them  o'er. 

Breathe  low  her  name,  my  soul,  for  that  means  more. 

Her  heart  beat  wildly  and  her  colour  came 
and  went,  but,  with  difficulty,  she  controlled 
herself  until  he  reached  the  end.  When  she 
rose,  he  rose  also,  dropping  the  book. 

"Mrs.  Lee— Edith!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  supreme  effort  at 
self-command,  "it  is  a  pretty  name,  is  n't  it?" 
She  was  very  pale,  but  she  offered  him  her 
hand.  "I  really  must  go  now,"  she  con 
tinued,  "for  I  am  tired.  Thank  you — and 
good-night." 

Alden  did  not  answer — in  words.  He  took 
the  hand  she  offered  him,  held  it  firmly  in  his 
own,  stooped,  and  kissed  the  hollow  of  her 
elbow,  just  below  the  sleeve. 


i  yo 


Ho 
Guarantee 


XII 

Hot  Hnswer 


SHE  'S  married,  and  he  is  n't  dead,  and 
they  're  not  divorced.  She  's  married 
and  he  is  n't  dead,  and  they  're  not  divorced." 
Rosemary  kept  saying  it  to  herself  mechan 
ically,  but  no  comfort  came.  Through  the 
long  night,  wakeful  and  wretched,  she  brooded 
over  the  painful  difference  between  the 
woman  to  whom  Alden  had  plighted  his  troth 
and  the  beautiful  stranger  whom  he  saw  every 
day. 

"She's  married,"  Rosemary  whispered, 
to  the  coarse  unbleached  muslin  of  her  pillow. 
"And  when  we  're  married—  '  ah,  it  would 
all  be  different  then.  But  would  it?  In  a 
flash  she  perceived  that  marriage  itself  guar 
antees  nothing  in  the  way  of  love. 

Hurt  to  her  heart's  core,  Rosemary  sat  up 
in  bed  and  pondered,  while  the  tears  streamed 
over  her  cheeks.  She  had  not  seen  Alden 
since  Mrs.  Lee  came,  except  the  day  she  had 
gone  there  to  tea,  wearing  her  white  muslin 
under  her  brown  alpaca.  There  was  no  way 


— Hot  answer 


to  see  him,  unless  she  went  there  again — the 
very  thought  of  that  made  her  shudder — or 
signalled  from  her  hill-top  with  the  scarlet 
ribbon. 

And,  to  her,  the  Hill  of  the  Muses  was  like 
some  holy  place  that  had  been  profaned.  The 
dainty  feet  of  the  stranger  had  set  themselves 
upon  her  path  in  more  ways  than  one.  What 
must  life  be  out  in  the  world,  when  the  world 
was  full  of  women  like  Mrs.  Lee,  perhaps  even 
more  beautiful?  Was  everyone,  married  or 
not,  continually  stabbed  by  some  heartbreak 
ing  difference  between  herself  and  another? 

Having  the  gift  of  detachment  immeasur 
ably  beyond  woman,  man  may  separate  him 
self  from  his  grief,  contemplate  it  calmly  in 
its  various  phases,  and,  with  a  mighty  effort, 
throw  it  aside.  Woman,  on  the  contrary, 
hugs  hers  close  to  her  aching  breast  and  re 
morselessly  turns  the  knife  in  her  wound. 
It  is  she  who  keeps  anniversaries,  walks  in 
cemeteries,  wears  mourning,  and  preserves 
trifles  that  sorrowfully  have  outlasted  the 
love  that  gave  them. 

If  she  could  only  see  him  once!  And  yet, 
what  was  there  to  say  or  what  was  there  to 
do,  beyond  sobbing  out  her  desolate  heart  in 
the  shelter  of  his  arms?  Could  she  tell  him 
that  she  was  miserable  because  she  had  come 
face  to  face  with  a  woman  more  beautiful 
than  she;  that  she  doubted  his  loyalty,  his 


172 


flDaster  ot  tbe 


HHorn  an6 


devotion?  From  some  far  off  ancestor,  her 
woman's  dower  of  pride  and  silence  suddenly 
asserted  itself  in  Rosemary.  When  he  wanted 
her,  he  would  find  her.  If  he  missed  her 
signal,  fluttering  from  the  birch  tree  in  the 
Spring  wind,  he  could  write  and  say  so. 
Meanwhile  she  would  not  seek  him,  though 
her  heart  should  break  from  loneliness  and 
despair. 

Craving  the  dear  touch  of  him,  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  or  even  the  sight  of  his  tall  well- 
knit  figure  moving  along  swiftly  in  the  dusk, 
she  compelled  herself  to  accept  the  situation, 
bitterness  and  all.  Across  her  open  window 
struck  the  single  long  deepening  shadow  that 
precedes  daybreak,  then  grey  lights  dawned 
on  the  far  horizon,  paling  the  stars  to  points 
of  pearl  upon  dim  purple  mists.  Worn  and 
weary,  Rosemary  slept  until  she  was  called 
to  begin  the  day's  dreary  round  of  toil,  as 
mechanical  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 

Cold  water  removed  the  traces  of  tears  from 
her  cheeks,  but  her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen. 
The  cheap  mirror  exaggerated  her  plainness, 
while  memory  pitilessly  emphasised  the  beauty 
of  the  other  woman.  As  she  dressed,  the 
thought  came  to  her  that,  no  matter  what 
happened,  she  could  still  go  on  loving  him, 
that  she  might  always  give,  whether  or  not 
she  received  anything  at  all  in  return. 

"Service,"  she  said  to  herself,  remembering 


Hsfting— Hot  Hnswer 


her  dream,  "and  sacrifice.  Giving,  not  re 
ceiving  ;  asking,  not  answer."  If  this  indeed 
was  love,  she  had  it  in  fullest  measure,  so 
why  should  she  ask  for  more? 

"Rosemary!" 

"  Yes,"  she  called  back,  trying  hard  to  make 
her  voice  even,  "  I  'm  coming!" 

"It  beats  all,"  Grandmother  said,  fretfully, 
when  she  rushed  breathlessly  into  the  dining- 
room.  "For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  under 
stand  how  you  can  sleep  so  much." 

Rosemary  smiled  grimly,  but  said  nothing. 

"Here  I've  been  settin',  waitin'  for  my 
breakfast,  since  before  six,  and  it 's  almost 
seven  now." 

"Never  mind,"  the  girl  returned,  kindly; 
"I  '11  get  it  ready  just  as  quickly  as  I  can." 

"  I  was  just  sayin',"  Grandmother  con 
tinued  when  Aunt  Matilda  came  into  the  room, 
"that  it  beats  all  how  Rosemary  can  sleep. 
I  've  been  up  since  half-past  five  and  she  's 
just  beginnin'  to  get  breakfast,  and  here  you 
come,  trailin'  along  in  with  your  hair  not 
combed,  at  ten  minutes  to  breakfast  time.  I 
should  think  you  'd  be  ashamed." 

"My  hair  is  combed,"  Matilda  retorted, 
quickly  on  the  defensive. 

"I  don't  know  when  it  was,"  Grandmother 
fretted.  "I  ain't  seen  it  combed  since  I  can 
remember." 

"Then    it's    because    you    ain't    looked. 


174 


toaster  of  tbe 


tflufff 


Any  time  you  want  to  see  me  combin'  my 
hair  you  can  come  in.  I  do  it  every  morning." 

Grandmother  laughed,  sarcastically.  "'Pears 
like  you  thought  you  was  one  of  them  mer 
maids  I  was  readin'  about  in  the  paper  once. 
They  're  half  fish  and  half  woman  and  they 
set  on  rocks,  combin'  their  hair  and  singin'  and 
the  ships  go  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  'cause  the 
sailors  are  so  anxious  to  see  'em  they  forget 
where  they  're  goin'." 

"There  ain't  no  rocks  outside  my  door  as 
I  know  of,"  Matilda  returned,  "and  only  one 
rocker  inside." 

"No,  nor  your  hair  ain't  like  theirs  neither. 
The  paper  said  their  hair  was  golden." 

"Must  be  nice  and  stiff,"  Matilda  com 
mented.  "  I  'd  hate  to  have  my  hair  all  wire." 

Grandmother  lifted  her  spectacles  from  the 
wart  and  peered  through  them  critically.  "I 
dunno,"  she  said,  "as  it 'd  look  any  different, 
except  for  the  colour.  The  way  you  're 
settin'  now,  against  the  light,  I  can  see  bristles 
stickin'  out  all  over  it,  same  as  if  't  was  wire." 

"Fluffy  hair  is  all  the  style  now,"  said 
Matilda,  complacently. 

"  Fluffy !"  Grandmother  grunted.  "  If  that 's 
what  you  call  it,  I  reckon  it  '11  soon  go 
out.  It  might  have  been  out  for  fifteen  or 
twenty  years  and  you  not  know  it.  I  don't 
believe  any  self-respectin'  woman  would  let 
her  hair  go  like  that.  Why  'n  the  name  of 


ashing— "Wot  Bnswer  175 

common  sense  can't  you  take  a  hair  brush  and 

wet  it  in  cold  water  and  slick  it  up,  so  's  folks    I"°tbcr'8 

IDieap* 

can   see   that  it 's  combed?    Mine 's   always  (pointment 
slick,  and  nobody  can't  say  that  it  is  n't." 

"Yes,"  Matilda  agreed  with  a  scornful 
glance,  "it  is  slick,  what  there  is  of  it." 

Grandmother's  head  burned  pink  through 
her  scanty  white  locks  and  her  eyes  flashed 
dangerously.  Somewhat  frightened,  Matilda 
hastened  to  change  the  subject. 

"She  wears  her  hair  like  mine." 

"She?"  repeated  Grandmother,  pricking  up 
her  ears,  "Who's  she?" 

"You  know — the  company  up  to  Marshs'." 

"Who  was  tellin'  you?  The  milkman,  or 
his  wife?" 

"None  of  'em,"  answered  Matilda,  mys 
teriously.  Then,  lowering  her  voice  to  a 
whisper,  she  added:  "I  seen  her  myself!" 

"When?"  Grandmother  demanded.  "You 
been  up  there,  pay  in'  back  your  own  call?" 

"She  went  by  here  yesterday,"  said  Matilda, 
hurriedly. 

"What  was  I  doin'?"  the  old  lady  inquired, 
resentfully. 

"  One  time  you  was  asleep  and  one  time  you 
was  readin'." 

"What?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  she  went 
by  here  twice  and  you  ain't  never  told  me 
till  now?" 

"When    you  've    been    readin',"    Matilda 


176 


flDaster  of  tbe 


f  f  Bns« 

thing 's 
Important 


rejoined,  with  secret  delight,  "you 've always 
told  me  and  Rosemary  too  that  you  wan't  to 
be  disturbed  unless  the  house  took  afire.  Ain't 
she,  Rosemary?" 

"What?"  asked  the  girl,  placing  a  saucer 
of  stewed  prunes  at  each  place  and  drawing 
up  the  three  chairs. 

"Ain't  she  always  said  she  didn't  want  to 
be  disturbed  when  she  was  readin'?"  She 
indicated  Grandmother  by  an  inclination  of 
her  frowsy  head. 

"  I  don't  believe  any  of  us  like  to  be  inter 
rupted  when  we  're  reading,"  Rosemary  re 
plied,  tactfully.  She  disliked  to  "take  sides," 
and  always  avoided  it  whenever  possible. 

"There,"  exclaimed  Matilda,  triumphantly. 

"And  the  other  time?"  pursued  Grand 
mother.  Her  eyes  glittered  and  her  cheeks 
burned  with  dull,  smouldering  fires. 

"You  was  asleep." 

"  I  could  have  been  woke  up,  could  n't 
I?" 

"You  could  have  been,"  Matilda  replied, 
after  a  moment's  thought,  "but  when  you  've 
been  woke  up  I  ain't  never  liked  to  be  the  one 
what  did  it." 

"  If  it 's  anything  important,"  Grandmother 
observed,  as  she  began  to  eat,  "  I  'm  willin' 
to  be  interrupted  when  I  'm  readin',  or  to  be 
woke  up  when  I  'm  asleep,  and  if  that  woman 
ever  goes  by  the  house  again,  I  want  to  be 


— ttot  Hnswer 


177 


told  of  it,  and  I  want  you  both  to  understand 
it,  right  here  and  now." 

"What  woman?"  queried  Rosemary.  She 
had  been  busy  in  the  kitchen  and  had  not 
grasped  the  subject  of  the  conversation, 
though  the  rumbling  of  it  had  reached  her 
from  afar. 

"Marshs'  company,"  said  both  voices  at 
once. 

"Oh!"  Rosemary  steadied  herself  for  a 
moment  against  the  back  of  her  chair  and 
then  sat  down. 

"Have  you  seen  her?"  asked  Grandmother. 

"Yes."  Rosemary's  answer  was  scarcely 
more  than  a  whisper.  In  her  wretchedness, 
she  told  the  truth,  being  unable  to  think  suf 
ficiently  to  lie. 

"When?"  asked  Aunt  Matilda. 

"Where?"  demanded  Grandmother. 

"Yesterday,  when  I  was  out  for  a  walk." 
It  was  not  necessary  to  go  back  of  yesterday. 

"Where  was  she?"  insisted  Grandmother. 

"Up  on  the  hill.  I  didn't  know  she  was 
there  when  I  went  up.  She  was  at  the  top, 
resting." 

"Did  she  speak  to  you?"  asked  Aunt 
Matilda. 

"Yes."  Rosemary's  voice  was  very  low 
and  had  in  it  all  the  weariness  of  the  world. 

"What  did  she  say?"  inquired  Grandmother, 
with  the  air  of  the  attorney  for  the  defence. 


t>ax>e  J3ou 
Seen  tier  1 


178 


dDaster  of  tbe 


tdbat 
E>oes  Sbc 
loot;  like? 


The  spectacles  were  resting  upon  the  wart  now, 
and  she  peered  over  them  disconcertingly. 

"I  asked  you  what  she  said,"  Grandmother 
repeated  distinctly,  after  a  pause. 

"She  said :     '  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Starr ? " 

"How'd  she  know  who  you  were?" 

"There,  there,  Mother,"  put  in  Aunt 
Matilda.  "  I  reckon  everybody  in  these  parts 
knows  the  Starr  family." 

"Of  course,"  returned  the  old  lady,  some 
what  mollified.  "What  else  did  she  say?" 

"Nothing  much,"  stammered  Rosemary. 
"That  is,  I  can't  remember.  She  said  it  was 
a  nice  day,  or  something  of  that  sort,  and  then 
she  went  back  home.  She  did  n't  stay  but  a 
minute."  So  much  was  true,  even  though  that 
minute  had  agonised  Rosemary  beyond  words. 

"What  does  she  look  like?"  Grandmother 
continued,  with  deep  interest. 

"Not — like  anybody  we  know.  Aunt  Ma 
tilda  can  tell  you  better  than  I  can.  She  saw 
her  too." 

Accepting  modestly  this  tribute  to  her 
powers  of  observation,  Aunt  Matilda  took  the 
conversation  out  of  Rosemary's  hands,  greatly 
to  her  relief.  The  remainder  of  breakfast 
was  a  spirited  dialogue.  Grandmother's  doubt 
on  any  one  point  was  quickly  silenced  by  the 
sarcastic  comment  from  Matilda:  "Well, 
bein'  as  you  've  seen  her  and  I  have  n't,  of 
course  you  know." 


"Hot  Bnswer 


179 


Meanwhile  Rosemary  ate,  not  knowing  what 
she  ate,  choking  down  her  food  with  glass 
after  glass  of  water  which  by  no  means  as 
suaged  the  inner  fires.  While  she  was  washing 
the  breakfast  dishes  the  other  two  were  dis 
cussing  Mrs.  Lee's  hair.  Grandmother  in 
sisted  that  it  was  a  wig,  as  play-actresses 
always  wore  them  and  Mrs.  Lee  was  undoubt 
edly  a  play-actress. 

"How  do  you  know?"  Matilda  inquired, 
with  sarcastic  inflection. 

"If  she  ain't,"  Grandmother  parried, 
"what's  she  gallivantin'  around  the  country 
for  without  her  husband?" 

"Maybe  he  's  dead." 

"  If  he  's  dead,  why  ain't  she  wearin'  mourn 
ing,  as  any  decent  woman  would?  She 's 
either  a  play-actress,  or  else  she  's  a  divorced 
woman,  or  maybe  both."  Either  condition, 
in  Grandmother's  mind,  was  the  seal  of  social 
damnation. 

"If  we  was  on  callin'  terms  with  the 
Marshs,"  said  Matilda,  meditatively,  "Mis' 
Marsh  might  be  bringin'  her  here." 

"Not  twice,"  returned  Grandmother,  with 
determination.  "This  is  my  house,  and  I  've 
got  something  to  say  about  who  comes  in  it. 
I  would  n't  even  have  Mis'  Marsh  now,  after 
she  's  been  hobnobbin'  with  the  likes  of  her." 

After  reverting  for  a  moment  to  the  copper- 
coloured  hair,  which  might  or  might  not  be  a 


i8o 


of  tbe  lt)fne£arfc 


wig,  the  conversation  drifted  back  to  mer 
maids  and  the  seafaring  folk  who  went  astray 
on  the  rocks.  Aunt  Matilda  insisted  that 
there  were  no  such  things  as  mermaids,  and 
Grandmother  triumphantly  dug  up  the  article 
in  question  from  a  copy  of  The  Household 
Guardian  more  than  three  months  old. 

"It's  a  lie,  just  the  same,"  Matilda  pro 
tested,  though  weakly,  as  one  in  the  last  ditch. 

"Matilda  Starr!"  The  clarion  note  of 
Grandmother's  voice  would  have  made  the 
dead  stir.  "Ain't  I  showed  it  to  you,  in  the 
paper?"  To  question  print  was  as  impious  as 
to  doubt  Holy  Writ. 

Rosemary  was  greatly  relieved  when  Mrs. 
Lee  gave  way  to  mermaids  in  the  eternal  flow 
of  talk.  She  wondered,  sometimes,  that  their 
voices  did  not  fail  them,  though  occasionally 
a  sulky  silence  or  a  nap  produced  a  brief  inter 
val  of  peace.  She  worked  faithfully  until 
her  household  tasks  were  accomplished,  dis 
covering  that,  no  matter  how  one's  heart 
aches,  one  can  do  the  necessary  things  and 
do  them  well. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  she  found  herself 
free.  Instinct  and  remorseless  pain  led  her 
unerringly  to  the  one  place,  where  the  great 
joy  had  come  to  her.  She  searched  her  suffer 
ing  dumbly,  and  without  mercy.  If  she  knew 
the  reason  why ! 

"She's    married,    and    her    husband    isn't 


asking— IRot  answer 


dead,  and  they  're  not  divorced."  Parrot- 
like,  Rosemary  repeated  the  words  to  herself, 
emphasising  each  fact  with  a  tap  of  her  foot 
on  the  ground  in  front  of  her.  Then  a  new 
fear  presented  itself,  clutching  coldly  at  her 
heart.  Perhaps  they  were  going  to  be  divorced 
and  then- 
Something  seemed  to  snap,  like  the  breaking 
of  a  strained  tension.  Rosemary  had  come 
to  the  point  where  she  could  endure  no  more, 
and  mercifully  the  pain  was  eased.  Later  on, 
no  doubt,  she  could  suffer  again,  but  for  the 
moment  she  felt  only  a  dull  weariness.  In 
the  background  the  ache  slumbered,  like  an 
ember  that  is  covered  with  ashes,  but  now 
she  was  at  rest. 

She  looked  about  her  curiously,  as  though 
she  were  a  stranger.  Yet,  at  the  very  spot 
where  she  stood,  Mrs.  Lee  had  stood  yester 
day,  her  brown  eyes  cold  with  controlled 
anger  when  she  made  her  sarcastic  farewell. 
When  she  first  saw  her,  she  had  been  sitting 
on  the  log,  where  Alden  usually  sat.  Down 
in  the  hollow  tree  was  the  wooden  box  that 
held  the  red  ribbon.  Shyly,  the  nine  silver 
birches,  with  bowed  heads,  had  turned  down 
the  hillside  and  stopped.  Across,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hill,  where  God  hung  His  flaming 
tapestries  of  sunset  from  the  high  walls  of 
Heaven,  Rosemary  had  stood  that  day, 
weeping,  and  Love  had  come  to  comfort  her. 


182  flDaster  of  tbe 


None  of  it  mattered  now  —  nothing  mattered 
n&art  any  more.  She  had  reached  the  end,  what 
ever  the  end  might  be.  Seemingly  it  was  a 
great  pause  of  soul  and  body,  the  conscious 
ness  of  arrival  at  the  ultimate  goal. 

When  she  saw  Alden,  she  would  ask  to  be 
released.  She  could  tell  him,  with  some  sem 
blance  of  truth,  that  she  could  not  leave 
Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda,  because  they 
needed  her,  and  after  they  had  done  so  much 
for  her,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  seem 
ungrateful,  even  for  him.  The  books  were 
full  of  such  things  —  the  eternal  sacrifice  of 
youth  to  age,  which  age  unblushingly  accepts, 
perhaps  in  remembrance  of  some  sacrifice  of 
its  own. 

He  had  told  her,  long  ago,  that  she  was 
the  only  woman  he  knew.  Now  he  had 
another  standard  to  judge  her  by  and,  at  the 
best,  she  must  fall  far  short  of  it.  Some  day 
Alden  would  marry  —  he  must  marry,  and  have 
a  home  of  his  own  when  his  mother  was  no 
longer  there  to  make  it  for  him,  and  she  —  she 
was  not  good  enough  for  him,  any  more  than 
Cinderella  was  good  enough  for  the  Prince. 

The  fact  that  the  Prince  had  considered 
Cinderella  fully  his  equal  happily  escaped 
Rosemary  now.  Clearly  before  her  lay  the 
one  thing  to  be  done:  to  tell  him  it  was  all  a 
mistake,  and  ask  for  freedom  before  he  forced 
it  upon  her.  He  had  been  very  kind  the  other 


Hsfttnfl— Hot  Hnswer 


183 


day,  when  she  had  gone  there  to  tea  but, 
naturally,  he  had  seen  the  difference — must 
have  seen  it. 

Of  course  it  would  not  be  Mrs.  Lee — Rose 
mary  could  laugh  at  that  now.  Her  jealousy 
of  an  individual  had  been  merely  the  recog 
nition  of  a  type,  and  her  emotion  the  unfail 
ing  tribute  inferiority  accords  superiority. 
Married,  and  her  husband  not  dead,  nor 
divorced — manifestly  it  could  not  be  Mrs.  Lee. 

She  longed  to  set  him  free,  to  bid  him  mate 
with  a  woman  worthy  of  him.  Some  glorious 
woman,  Rosemary  thought,  with  abundant 
beauty  and  radiant  hair,  with  a  low,  deep 
voice  that  vibrated  through  the  room  like 
some  stringed  instrument  and  lingered,  in 
melodious  echoes,  like  music  that  has  ceased. 
She  saw  her  few  days  of  joy  as  the  one  perfect 
thing  she  had  ever  had,  the  one  gift  she  had 
prayed  for  and  received.  This  much  could 
never  be  taken  away  from  her.  She  had  had 
it  and  been  blessed  by  it,  and  now  the  time 
had  come  to  surrender  it.  What  was  she, 
that  she  might  hope  to  keep  it? 

"  Lo,  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  Lord  of  all 

One  little  shell  upon  the  murmuring  sand, 
One  little  heart -flame  sheltered  in  his  hand — " 

The  moment  of  shelter  became  divinely 
dear.  Already,  in  her  remembrance,  she  had 
placed  a  shrine  to  which  she  might  go,  in 


1RC8C« 

mark's 

few  S)at» 

of  3ve 


1 84  faster  of  tbe  Dinegarfc 

•HO  ©ne  silence,  when  things  became  too  hard.  She 
would  have  written  to  Alden,  if  she  had  had  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and  an  envelope,  and  a  stamp, 
but  she  had  not,  and  dared  not  face  the  torrent 
of  questions  she  would  arouse  by  asking  for  it. 

Her  face  transfigured  by  a  passion  of  renun 
ciation,  Rosemary  reached  into  the  hollow 
tree  for  the  wooden  box,  and,  for  the  last  time 
unwound  the  scarlet  ribbon.  She  tied  it  to 
the  lowest  bough  of  the  birch  when  the  school 
bell  rang,  and  went  back  to  wait.  Without 
emotion,  she  framed  the  few  words  she  would 
say.  "Just  tell  him  it 's  all  a  mistake,  that 
they  need  me  and  I  must  n't  leave  them,  and 
so  good-bye.  And  if  he  tries  to  kiss  me  for 
good-bye — oh,  he  must  n't,  for  I  could  n't 
bear  that!" 

So  Rosemary  sat  and  waited — until  almost 
dark,  but  no  one  came.  Alden  had,  indeed, 
hurried  home  to  have  afternoon  tea  with  his 
mother  and  Edith.  He  had  almost  forgotten 
theoriflamme  that  sometimes  signalled  to  him 
from  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  seldom  even 
glanced  that  way. 

In  the  gathering  dusk,  Rosemary  took  it 
down,  unemotionally.  It  seemed  only  part 
of  the  great  denial.  She  put  it  back  into  the 
box,  and  hid  it  in  the  tree. 

"Service,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  went 
home,  "and  sacrifice.  Giving,  not  receiving; 
asking,  not  answer.  And  this  is  love!" 


XIII 

Stain  of  tbe  IRose 

ALDEN  had  put  Rosemary  aside  as  though 
in  a  mental  pigeon-hole.  If  vague 
thoughts  of  her  came  now  and  then  to  trouble 
him,  he  showed  no  sign  of  it.  As  weeks  and 
months  had  sometimes  passed  without  a 
meeting,  why  should  it  be  different  now? 
Moreover,  he  was  busy,  as  she  must  know, 
with  the  vineyard  and  school,  and  a  guest. 

He  had  ordered  several  books  on  the  subject 
of  vine-culture,  and  was  reading  a  great  deal, 
though  a  close  observer  might  have  noted 
long  intervals  in  which  he  took  no  heed  of 
the  book,  but  stared  dreamily  into  space. 
He  saw  Edith  at  the  table,  and  in  the  evenings, 
and  occasionally  at  afternoon  tea — a  pleasant 
custom  which  she  and  Madame  never  failed 
to  observe, — but  she  seemed  to  make  it  a 
point  not  to  trespass  upon  his  daylight  hours. 

The  apple  blossoms  had  gone,  blown  in 
fragrant  drifts  afar  upon  field  and  meadow. 
The  vineyard  lay  lazily  upon  its  southern 
slope,  basking  in  the  sun.  Sometimes  a  wan- 


186 


Btoen's 

JFeaet 


dering  wind  brought  a  fresh  scent  of  lusty 
leaves  or  a  divine  hint  of  bloom. 

The  old-fashioned  square  piano,  long  silent, 
was  open  now,  and  had  been  put  in  order. 
In  the  evenings,  after  dinner,  Edith  would 
play,  dreamily,  in  the  dusk  or  by  the  light  of 
one  candle.  The  unshaded  light,  shining  full 
upon  her  face,  brought  out  the  delicacy  of  her 
profile  and  allured  stray  gleams  from  the 
burnished  masses  of  her  hair.  In  the  soft 
shadows  that  fell  around  her,  she  sat  like 
St.  Cecilia,  unconscious  of  self,  and  of  the  man 
who  sat  far  back  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  never 
taking  his  eyes  from  her  face. 

Wistfulness  was  in  every  line  of  her  face 
and  figure,  from  the  small  white-shod  foot 
that  rested  upon  the  pedal  to  the  glorious 
hair  that  shimmered  and  shone  but  still  held 
its  tangled  lights  safely  in  its  silken  strands. 
The  long  line  from  shoulder  to  wrist,  the 
smooth,  satiny  texture  of  the  rounded  arm, 
bare  below  the  elbow,  the  delicate  hands,  so 
beautifully  cared-for,  all  seemed  eloquent 
with  yearning. 

Alden,  from  his  safe  point  of  observation, 
feasted  his  soul  to  the  full.  The  ivory  white 
ness  of  her  neck  shaded  imperceptibly  into 
the  creamy  lace  of  her  gown.  Underneath 
her  firm,  well  rounded  chin,  on  the  left  side, 
was  a  place  that  was  almost  a  dimple,  but 
not  quite.  There  was  a  real  dimple  in  her 


Stain  ot  tbe  TRosc 


chin  and  another  at  each  corner  of  her  mouth, 
where  the  full  scarlet  lips  drooped  a  little 
from  sadness.  Star-like,  her  brown  eyes 
searched  the  far  shadows  and  sometimes  the 
flicker  of  the  candle  brought  a  dancing  glint 
of  gold  into  their  depths.  And  as  always, 
like  a  halo,  stray  gleams  hovered  about  her 
head,  bent  slightly  forward  now  and  full  into 
the  light,  throwing  into  faint  relief  the  short 
straight  nose,  and  the  full,  short  upper  lip. 

Smiling,  and  wholly  unconscious,  it  was  as 
though  she  pleaded  with  the  instrument  to 
give  her  back  some  half-forgotten  melody. 
Presently  the  strings  answered,  shyly  at 
first,  then  in  full  soft  chords  that  sang  and 
crooned  through  the  dusk.  Alden,  in  his 
remote  corner,  drew  a  long  breath  of  rapture. 
The  ineffable  sweetness  of  her  pervaded  his 
house,  not  alone  with  the  scent  of  violets,  but 
with  the  finer,  more  subtle  fragrance  of  her 
personality. 

She  wore  no  jewels,  except  her  wedding 
ring — not  even  the  big,  blazing  diamond  with 
which  her  husband  had  sealed  their  betrothal. 
She  had  a  string  of  pearls  and  a  quaint,  oriental 
necklace  set  with  jade,  and  sometimes  she 
wore  one  or  two  turquoises,  or  a  great,  pale 
sapphire  set  in  silver,  but  that  was  all.  Out 
of  the  world  of  glitter  and  sparkle,  she  had 
chosen  these  few  things  that  suited  her,  and 
was  content. 


188 


flDaster  of  tbe 


From  another  corner  came  the  sound  of 
slow,  deep  breathing.  Outside  the  circle  of 
candlelight,  Madame  had  fallen  asleep  in  her 
chair.  The  full  June  moon  had  shadowed 
the  net  curtain  upon  the  polished  floor  and 
laid  upon  it,  in  silhouette,  an  arabesque  of  oak 
leaves.  It  touched  Madame's  silvered  hair 
to  almost  unearthly  beauty  as  she  leaned  back 
with  her  eyes  closed,  and  brought  a  memory 
of  violets  and  sun  from  the  gold-tasselled 
amethyst  that  hung  on  her  breast.  The  small 
slender  hands  lay  quietly,  one  on  either  arm 
of  her  chair.  A  white  crepe  shawl,  heavy 
with  Chinese  embroidery,  lay  over  her  shoul 
ders, — a  gift  from  Edith.  A  Summer  wind, 
like  a  playful  child,  stole  into  the  room,  lifted 
the  deep  silk  fringe  of  the  shawl,  made  merry 
with  it  for  a  moment,  then  tinkled  the  prisms 
on  the  chandelier  and  ran  away  again. 

The  fairy-like  sound  of  it,  as  though  it  were 
a  far,  sweet  bell,  chimed  in  with  Edith's 
dreamy  chords  and  brought  her  to  herself 
with  a  start.  She  turned  quickly,  saw  that 
Madame  was  asleep,  and  stopped  playing. 

"Go  on,"  said  Alden,  in  a  low  tone.  " Please 
do." 

"  I  must  n't,"  she  whispered,  with  her 
finger  on  her  lips.  "Your  mother  is  asleep 
and  I  don't  want  to  disturb  her." 

"Evidently  you  have  n't,"  he  laughed. 

"Hush!"     Edith's  full,  deep  contralto  took 


Stain  of  tbe  "Rose 


on    an    affected    sternness.     "You    mustn't 
talk." 

"But   I  've  got  to,"   he  returned.     "Shall 
we  go  outdoors?" 
"  Yes,  if  you  like." 

"Don't  you  want  a  wrap  of  some  sort?" 
"Yes.    Wait  a  moment,  and  I  '11  get  it." 
"  No — tell  me  where  it  is,  and  I  '11  go." 
"It 's  only  a  white  chiffon  scarf,"  she  said. 
"I  think  you  '11  find  it  hanging  from  the  back 
of  that  low  rocker,  near  the  dressing-table." 

He  went  up-stairs,  silently  and  swiftly,  and 
paused,  for  a  moment,  at  Edith's  door.  It 
seemed  strange  to  have  her  permission  to 
turn  the  knob  and  go  in.  He  hesitated  upon 
the  threshold,  then  entered  the  sweet  dark 
ness  which,  to  him,  would  have  meant  Edith, 
had  it  been  blown  to  him  across  the  wastes  of 
Sahara. 

How  still  it  was!  Only  the  cheery  piping 
of  a  cricket  broke  the  exquisite  peace  of  the 
room;  only  a  patch  of  moonlight,  upon  the 
polished  floor,  illumined  the  scented  dusk. 
He  struck  a  match,  and  lighted  one  of  the 
candles  upon  the  dressing-table. 

The  place  was  eloquent  of  her,  as  though  she 
had  just  gone  out.  The  carved  ivory  toilet 
articles — he  could  have  guessed  that  she 
would  not  have  silver  ones, — the  crystal  puff 
box,  with  a  gold  top  ornamented  only  by  a 
monogram;  no,  it  was  not  a  monogram  either, 


flDaster  of  tbe  Dfneparb 


B  flan's 
Ifacc 


but  interlaced  initials  trailing  diagonally 
across  it;  the  mirror,  a  carelessly  crumpled 
handkerchief,  and  a  gold  thimble — he  picked 
up  each  article  with  a  delightful  sense  of 
intimacy. 

Face  down  upon  the  dressing-table  was  a 
photograph,  framed  in  dull  green  leather. 
That,  too,  he  took  up  without  stopping  to 
question  the  propriety  of  it.  A  man's  face 
smiled  back  at  him,  a  young,  happy  face,  full 
of  comradeship  and  the  joy  of  life  for  its  own 
sake. 

This,  then,  was  her  husband!  Alden's 
heart  grew  hot  with  resentment  at  the  man 
who  had  made  Edith  miserable.  He  had  put 
those  sad  lines  under  her  eyes,  that  showed  so 
plainly  sometimes  when  she  was  tired,  made 
her  sweet  mouth  droop  at  the  corners,  and 
filled  her  whole  personality  with  the  wistful- 
ness  that  struck  at  his  heart,  like  the  wistful- 
ness  of  a  little  child. 

This  man,  with  the  jovial  countenance,  and 
doubtless  genial  ways,  had  the  right  to  stand 
at  her  dressing-table,  if  he  chose,  and  speculate 
upon  the  various  uses  of  all  the  daintiness  that 
was  spread  before  him.  He  had  the  right  and 
cared  nothing  for  it,  while  the  man  who  did 
care,  stood  there  shamefaced,  all  at  once  feeling 
himself  an  intruder  in  a  sacred  place. 

He  put  the  photograph  back,  face  down, 
as  it  had  been,  took  the  scarf,  put  out  the  light, 


Ube  Stain  ot  tbe  "Rose 


and  went  back  down-stairs.  He  stopped  for 
a  moment  in  the  hall  to  wonder  what  this  was 
that  assailed  him  so  strangely,  this  passionate 
bitterness  against  the  other  man,  this  longing 
to  shelter  Edith  from  whatever  might  make 
her  unhappy. 

The  living-room  was  dark.  In  her  moonlit 
corner,  Madame  still  slept.  From  where  he 
stood,  he  could  see  the  dainty  little  lavender- 
clad  figure  enwrapped  in  its  white  shawl. 
There  was  no  sign  of  Edith  in  the  room,  so 
he  went  out  upon  the  veranda,  guessing  that 
he  should  find  her  there. 

She  had  taken  out  two  chairs — a  favourite 
rocker  of  her  own,  and  the  straight-backed, 
deep  chair  in  which  Alden  usually  sat  when 
he  was  reading.  The  chairs  faced  each  other, 
with  a  little  distance  between  them.  Edith 
sat  in  hers,  rocking,  with  her  hands  crossed 
behind  her  head,  and  her  little  white  feet 
stretched  out  in  front  of  her. 

Without  speaking,  Alden  went  back  for  a 
footstool.  Then  he  turned  Edith,  chair  and 
all,  toward  the  moonlight,  slipped  the  footstool 
under  her  feet,  laid  the  fluttering  length  of 
chiffon  over  her  shoulders,  and  brought  his 
own  chair  farther  forward. 

"Why,"  she  laughed,  as  he  sat  down, 
"do  you  presume  to  change  my  arrange 
ments?" 

"Because  I  want  to  see  your  face." 


192 


/iDaster  of  tbe  Wneparfc 


Effect  of 
ADoonligbt 


"Did  n't  it  occur  to  you  that  I  might  want 
to  see  yours?" 

"Not  especially." 

"My  son,"  she  said,  in  her  most  matronly 
manner,  "kindly  remember  that  a  woman 
past  her  first  youth  always  prefers  to  sit  with 
her  back  toward  the  light." 

"  I  'm  older  than  you  are,"  he  reminded 
her,  "so  don't  be  patronising." 

"  In  years  only,"  she  returned.  "  In  worldly 
wisdom  and  experience  and  all  the  things  that 
count,  I  'm  almost  as  old  as  your  mother  is. 
Sometimes,"  she  added,  bitterly,  "I  feel  as 
though  I  were  a  thousand." 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face,  but,  as  his  figure 
loomed  darkly  against  the  moon,  Edith  did 
not  see  it.  The  caressing  glamour  of  the 
light  revealed  the  sad  sweetness  of  her  mouth, 
but  presently  her  lips  curved  upward  in  a 
forced  smile. 

"Why  is  it?"  she  asked,  "that  moonlight 
makes  one  think?" 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  did,"  he  replied.  "  I 
thought  it  was  supposed  to  have  quite  the 
opposite  effect." 

"It  doesn't  with  me.  In  the  sun,  I'm 
sane,  and  have  control  of  myself,  but  nights 
like  this  drive  me  almost  mad  sometimes." 

"Why?"  he  asked  gently,  leaning  toward 
her. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  sighed.     "There  's 


Stain  ot  tbe  1Rose 


so  much  I  might  have  that  I  have  n't." 
Then  she  added,  suddenly:  "What  did  you 
think  of  my  husband's  picture?" 

The  end  of  the  chiffon  scarf  rose  to  meet  a 
passing  breeze,  then  fell  back  against  the 
softness  of  her  arm.  A  great  grey-winged 
night  moth  fluttered  past  them.  From  the 
high  bough  of  a  distant  maple  came  the 
frightened  twitter  of  little  birds,  wakeful  in 
the  night,  and  the  soft,  murmurous  voice  of 
the  brooding  mother,  soothing  them. 

"How  did  you  know?"  asked  Alden,  slowly. 

"Oh,  I  just  knew.  You  were  looking  at 
my  dressing-table  first,  and  you  picked  up 
the  picture  without  thinking.  Then,  as  soon 
as  you  knew  who  it  was,  you  put  it  down, 
found  the  scarf,  and  came  out." 

"Do  you  love  him?" 

"No.  That  is,  I  don't  think  I  do.  But— 
oh,"  she  added,  with  a  sharp  indrawing  of  her 
breath,  "how  I  did  love  him!" 

"And  he—  '  Alden  went  on.  ''Does  he 
love  you?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  in  his  way.  As  much  as  he 
is  capable  of  caring  for  anything  except  him 
self,  he  cares  for  me." 

She  rose  and  walked  restlessly  along  the 
veranda,  the  man  following  her  with  his  eyes, 
until  she  reached  the  latticed  end,  where  a 
climbing  crimson  rose,  in  full  bloom,  breathed 
the  fragrance  of  some  far  Persian  garden. 


194 


dDaster  of  tbe  Dineparfc 


Reaching  up,  she  picked  one,  on  a  long, 
slender  stem. 

Alden  appeared  beside  her,  with  his  knife  in 
his  hand.  "Shall  I  take  off  the  thorns  for 
you?" 

"No,  I  'm  used  to  thorns.  Besides,  the 
wise  ones  are  those  who  accept  things  as  they 
are."  She  thrust  the  stem  into  her  belt,  found 
a  pin  from  somewhere,  and  pinned  the  flower 
itself  upon  the  creamy  lace  of  her  gown. 

"It's  just  over  your  heart,"  he  said.  "Is 
your  heart  a  rose  too?" 

"As  far  as  thorns  go,  yes." 

She  leaned  back  against  one  of  the  white 
columns  of  the  porch.  She  was  facing  the 
moonlight,  but  the  lattice  and  the  rose  shaded 
her  with  fragrant  dusk. 

"Father  and  Mother  planted  this  rose," 
Alden  said,  "the  day  they  were  married." 

"How  lovely,"  she  answered,  without 
emotion.  "But  to  think  that  the  rose  has 
outlived  one  and  probably  will  outlive  the 
other!" 

"Mother  says  she  hopes  it  will.  She  wants 
to  leave  it  here  for  me  and  my  problematical 
children.  The  tribal  sense  runs  rampant  in 
Mother." 

"When  are  you  and  Miss  Starr  going  to  be 
married?"  asked  Edith,  idly. 

Alden  started.  "How  did  you  know?"  he 
demanded,  roughly,  possessing  himself  of  her 


Ube  Stain  of  tbe  "Rose  I95 

hands.     "Who    told   you — Mother,    or — Miss 

Starr?"  etanDing 

"Neither,"  replied  Edith,  coldly,  releasing 
herself.  "I — just  knew.  I  beg  your  pardon," 
she  added,  hastily.  "Of  course  it's  none  of 
my  affair." 

"But  it  is,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
Then,  coming  closer,  he  took  her  hands  again. 
"Look  here,  Edith,  there  's  something  between 
you  and  me — do  you  know  it?" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  She  tried  to  speak 
lightly,  but  her  face  was  pale. 

"You  know  very  well  what  I  mean.  How 
do  you  know  what  I  think,  what  I  do,  what  I 
am?  And  the  nights — no,  don't  try  to  get 
away  from  me — from  that  first  night  when  I 
woke  at  four  and  knew  you  were  crying,  to 
that  other  night  when  you  knew  it  was  I  who 
was  awake  with  you,  and  all  the  nights  since 
when  the  tide  of  time  has  turned  between 
three  and  four!  I  've  known  your  thoughts, 
your  hopes,  your  dreams,  as  you  've  known 
mine! 

"And  the  next  day,"  he  went  on,  "when 
you  avoid  me  even  with  your  eyes;  when  you 
try  to  hide  with  laughter  and  light  words  your 
consciousness  of  the  fact  that  the  night  before 
you  and  I  have  met  somewhere,  in  some  mys 
terious  way,  and  known  each  other  as  though 
we  were  face  to  face!  Can  you  be  miserable, 
and  I  not  know  it?  Can  I  be  tormented  by 


196 


jflDaster  of  tbe  tttneparfc 


a   thousand  doubts,   and  you  not  know  itj? 

A"f  TTItn  -* 

anj>  space  Could  you  be  ill,  or  troubled,  or  even  per 
plexed,  and  1  not  know,  though  the  whole 
world  lay  between  us?  Answer  me!" 

Edith's  face  was  very  white  and  her  lips 
almost  refused  to  move.  "Oh,  Boy,"  she 
whispered,  brokenly.  "What  does  it  mean?" 

"This,"  he  answered,  imperiously.  "It 
means  this — and  now!" 

He  took  her  into  his  arms,  crushing  her  to 
him  so  tightly  that  she  almost  cried  out  with 
the  delicious  pain  of  it.  In  the  rose-scented 
shadow,  his  mouth  found  hers. 

Time  and  space  were  no  more.  At  the  por 
tal  of  the  lips,  soul  met  soul.  The  shaded 
veranda,  and  even  the  house  itself  faded 
away.  Only  this  new-born  ecstasy  lived,  like 
a  flaming  star  suddenly  come  to  earth. 

Madame  stirred  in  her  sleep.  Then  she 
called,  drowsily:  "Alden!  Edith!"  No  one 
answered,  because  no  one  heard.  She  got  up, 
smothering  a  yawn  behind  her  hand,  wondered 
that  there  were  no  lights,  waited  a  moment, 
heard  nothing,  and  came  to  the  window. 

The  moon  flooded  the  earth  with  enchant 
ment — a  silvery  ocean  of  light  breaking  upon 
earth-bound  shores.  A  path  of  it  lay  along 
the  veranda — opal  and  tourmaline  and  pearl, 
sharply  turned  aside  by  the  shadow  of  the 
rose. 

Madame  drew  her  breath  quickly.    There 


Stain  of  tbe  "Rose 


they  stood,  partly  in  the  dusk  and  partly  in 
the  light,  close  in  each  other's  arms,  with 
the  misty  silver  lying  lovingly  upon  Edith's 
hair. 

She  sank  back  into  a  chair,  remembering, 
with  vague  terror,  the  vision  she  had  seen  in  the 
crystal  ball.  So,  then,  it  was  true,  as  she 
might  have  known.  Sorely  troubled,  and 
with  her  heart  aching  for  them  both,  she  crept 
up-stairs. 

"Boy,"  whispered  Edith,  shrinking  from 
him.  "Oh,  Boy!  The  whole  world  lies  be 
tween  you  and  me!" 

His  only  answer  was  to  hold  her  closer  still, 
to  turn  her  mouth  again  to  his.  "Not  to 
night,"  he  breathed,  with  his  lips  on  hers. 
"God  has  given  us  to-night!" 

White  and  shaken,  but  with  her  eyes  shining 
like  stars,  at  last  she  broke  away  from  him. 
She  turned  toward  the  house,  but  he  caught 
her  and  held  her  back. 

"Say  it,"  he  pleaded.     "Say  you  love  me!" 

"I  do,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  have  pity, 
and  let  me  go!" 

"And  I,"  he  answered,  with  his  face  il 
lumined,  "love  you  with  all  my  heart  and 
soul  and  strength  and  will — with  every  fibre 
of  my  being,  for  now  and  for  ever.  I  am  yours 
absolutely,  while  earth  holds  me,  and  even 
beyond  that." 


flDaster  ot  tbe  Dineyarfc 


Edith  looked  up  quickly,  half  afraid.  His 
eyes  were  glowing  with  strange,  sweet  fires. 

"Say  it!"  he  commanded.  "Tell  me  you 
are  mine!" 

"I  am,"  she  breathed.  "God  knows  I  am, 
but  no  —  I  had  forgotten  for  the  moment!" 

She  broke  into  wild  sobbing,  and  he  put 
his  arm  around  her  with  infinite  tenderness. 
"Hush,"  he  said,  as  one  might  speak  to  a 
child.  "What  has  been  does  not  matter- 
nothing  matters  now  but  this.  In  all  the 
ways  of  Heaven,  you  are  mine  —  mine  for 
always,  by  divine  right!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  simply,  and  lifted  her 
tear-stained  face  to  his. 

He  kissed  her  again,  not  with  passion,  but 
with  that  same  indescribable  tenderness. 
Neither  said  a  word.  They  went  into  the 
house  together,  he  found  her  candle,  lighted  it, 
and  gave  it  to  her. 

She  took  it  from  him,  smiling,  though  her 
hands  trembled.  Back  in  the  shadow  he 
watched  her  as  she  ascended,  with  a  look  of 
exaltation  upon  her  face.  Crimson  petals 
were  falling  all  around  her,  and  he  saw  the 
stain  of  the  rose  upon  her  white  gown,  where 
he  had  crushed  it  against  her  heart. 

Neither  slept,  until  the  tide  of  the  night 
began  to  turn.  Swiftly,  to  her,  through  the 
throbbing,  living  darkness,  came  a  question 
and  a  call. 


Ube  Stain  of  tbe  1Rose  I99 

"Mine?" 

Back  surged  the  unmistakable  answer: 
"Thine."  Then,  to  both,  came  dreamless 
peace. 


flDaDamc 

1Rc« 

proacbes 
*er«elf 


XIV 

Gbe  Higbt  before  a  Sbrine 

JUDITH  did  not  appear  at  breakfast.  Alden 
J_L  seemed  preoccupied,  ate  but  little, 
and  Madame,  pale  after  a  sleepless  night, 
ate  nothing  at  all.  Furtively  she  watched 
her  son,  longing  to  share  his  thoughts  and 
warn  him  against  the  trouble  that  inevitably 
lay  ahead. 

Woman-like,  she  blamed  the  woman,  even 
including  herself.  She  knew  that  what  she 
had  seen  last  night  was  not  the  evidence  of  a 
mere  flirtation  or  passing  fancy,  and  re 
proached  herself  bitterly  because  she  had 
asked  Edith  to  stay. 

And  yet,  what  mother  could  hope  to  shield 
her  son  against  temptation  in  its  most  intoxi 
cating  form  ?  For  his  thirty  years  he  had  lived 
in  the  valley,  practically  without  feminine 
society.  Only  his  mother,  and,  of  late,  Rose 
mary.  Then,  star-like  upon  his  desert,  Edith 
had  arisen,  young,  beautiful,  unhappy,  with 
all  the  arts  and  graces  a  highly  specialised 
civilisation  bestows  upon  its  women. 


Ube  Xf(jbt  before  a  Sbrtne 


Madame's  heart  softened  a  little  toward 
Edith.  Perhaps  she  was  not  wholly  to  blame. 
She  remembered  the  night  Edith  had  en 
deavoured  to  escape  a  tete-a-tete  with  Alden 
and  she  herself  had  practically  forced  her  to 
stay.  Regardless  of  the  warning  given  by 
the  crystal  ball,  in  which  Madame  now  had 
more  faith  than  ever,  she  had  not  only  given 
opportunity,  but  had  even  forced  it  upon 
them. 

Looking  back,  she  could  not  remember, 
upon  Edith's  part,  a  word  or  even  a  look  that 
had  been  out  of  place.  She  could  recall  no 
instance  in  which  she  had  shown  the  slightest 
desire  for  Alden's  society.  Where  another 
woman  might  have  put  herself  in  his  way, 
times  without  number,  Edith  had  kept  to  her 
own  room,  or  had  gone  out  alone. 

On  the  contrary,  Madame  herself  had 
urged  drives  and  walks.  Frequently  she 
had  asked  Alden  to  do  certain  things  and  had 
reminded  him  of  the  courtesy  due  from  host 
to  guest.  Once,  when  she  had  requested  him 
to  take  Edith  out  for  a  drive,  he  had  replied, 
somewhat  sharply,  that  he  had  already  invited 
her  and  she  had  refused  to  go. 

Murmuring  an  excuse,  Alden  left  the  table 
and  went  out.  Madame  was  rather  glad  to 
be  left  alone,  for  she  wanted  time  to  think, 
not  as  one  thinks  in  darkness,  when  one  pain 
ful  subject,  thrown  out  of  perspective,  assumes 


2O2 


/Raster  of  tbe  Dineparb 


flDa&ame's 
View  of 

tbe  Case 


exaggerated  proportions  of  importance,  but 
in  clear,  sane  sunlight,  surrounded  by  the 
reassuring  evidences  of  every-day  living. 

Obviously  she  could  not  speak  to  either. 
She  could  not  say  to  Alden:  "I  saw  you 
last  night  with  Edith  in  your  arms  and  that 
sort  of  thing  will  not  do."  Nor  could  she  say 
to  Edith:  "My  dear,  you  must  remember 
that  you  are  a  married  woman."  She  must 
not  only  wait  for  confidences,  but  must  keep 
from  them  both,  for  ever,  the  fact  that  she 
had  accidentally  stumbled  upon  their  divine 
moment. 

After  long  thought,  and  eager  to  be  just, 
she  held  Edith  practically  blameless,  yet,  none 
the  less,  earnestly  wished  that  she  would  go 
home.  She  smiled  whimsically,  wishing  that 
there  were  a  social  formula  in  which,  without 
offence,  one  might  request  an  invited  guest 
to  depart.  She  wondered  that  one's  home 
must  be  continually  open,  when  other  places 
are  permitted  to  close.  The  graceful  social 
lie,  "Not  at  home,"  had  never  appealed  to 
Madame.  Why  might  not  one  say,  truth 
fully:  "I  am  sorry  you  want  to  see  me,  for  I 
have  n't  the  slightest  desire  in  the  world  to 
see  you.  Please  go  away."  Or,  to  an  invited 
guest:  "When  I  asked  you  to  come  I  wanted 
to  see  you,  but  I  have  seen  quite  enough  of 
you  for  the  present,  and  would  be  glad  to 
have  you  go  home." 


TTbe  OUgbt  before  a  Sbrine  2°3 

Her    reflections    were    cut    short    by    the    H  ranearf. 
appearance  of  Edith  herself,  wan  and  weary,    80me 
very  pale,  but  none  the  less  transfigured  by 
secret  joy.     Her  eyes,  alight  with  mysterious 
fires,  held  in  their  starry  depths  a  world  of 
love  and  pain.     In  some  occult  way  she  sug 
gested  to  Madame  a  light  burning  before  a 
shrine. 

Edith  did  not  care  for  breakfast  but  forced 
herself  to  eat  a  little.  She  responded  to 
Madame's  polite  inquiries  in  monosyllables, 
and  her  voice  was  faint  and  far  away.  Yes, 
she  was  well.  No,  she  had  not  slept  until 
almost  morning.  No,  nothing  was  making 
her  unhappy — that  was,  nothing  new.  After 
all,  perhaps  she  did  have  a  headache.  Yes, 
she  believed  she  would  lie  down.  It  was  very 
kind  of  Madame  but  she  did  not  believe  she 
wanted  any  luncheon  and  certainly  would  not 
trouble  anyone  to  bring  it  up. 

Yet  at  noon,  when  Madame  herself  appeared 
with  a  tempting  tray,  Edith  gratefully  ac 
cepted  a  cup  of  coffee.  She  was  not  lying 
down,  but  was  sitting  in  her  low  rocker,  with 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head  and  the 
photograph  of  her  husband  on  the  dressing- 
table  before  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Madame's 
inquiring  glance,  "that's  my  husband.  It 
was  taken  just  about  the  time  we  were 
married." 


2O4 


/Raster  of  tbe 


®n  tbe 

Strobe  of 

Seven 


Madame  took  the  picture,  studied  it  for  a 
moment,  then  returned  it  to  its  place.  She 
made  no  comment,  having  been  asked  for 
none. 

"Won't  you  lie  down,  dear?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  will." 

"Truly?" 

"Yes — I  promise." 

With  a  sad  little  smile  she  kissed  Madame, 
closed  the  door,  and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 
The  old  lady  sighed  as  she  went  down  with 
the  tray,  reflecting  how  impossible  it  is  really 
to  aid  another,  unless  the  barrier  of  silence 
be  removed. 

At  four,  she  had  her  tea  alone.  No  sound 
came  from  upstairs,  and  Alden  neither  re 
turned  to  luncheon  nor  sent  word.  When  he 
came  in,  a  little  past  six,  he  was  tired  and 
muddy,  his  face  was  strained  and  white,  and, 
vouchsafing  only  the  briefest  answers  to  his 
mother's  solicitude,  went  straight  to  his  room. 

Exactly  upon  the  stroke  of  seven,  both 
appeared,  Alden  in  evening  clothes  as  usual, 
and  Edith  in  her  black  gown,  above  which 
her  face  was  deathly  white  by  contrast,  in 
spite  of  the  spangles.  She  wore  no  ornaments, 
not  even  the  string  of  pearls  about  her  bare 
throat. 

"  You  look  as  though  you  were  in  mourning, 
my  dear,"  said  Madame.  "Let  me  get  you 
a  red  rose." 


Z£be  Xigbt  before  a  Sbrlne 


She  started  toward  the  veranda,  but,  with 
a  little  cry,  Edith  caught  her  and  held  her 
back.  "No,"  she  said,  in  a  strange  tone, 
"roses  are — not  for  me!" 

The  dinner-gong  chimed  in  with  the  answer, 
and  the  three  went  out  together.  Neither 
Alden  nor  Edith  made  more  than  a  pretence 
of  eating.  Edith  held  her  head  high  and 
avoided  even  his  eyes,  though  more  than  once 
Madame  saw  the  intensity  of  his  appeal. 

Afterward  he  took  his  paper,  Madame  her 
fancy  work,  and  Edith,  attempting  to  play  soli 
taire,  hopelessly  fumbled  her  cards.  Madame 
made  a  valiant  effort  to  carry  on  a  conversa 
tion  alone,  but  at  length  the  monologue 
wearied  her,  and  she  slipped  quietly  out  of 
the  room. 

Edith  turned,  with  a  start,  and  hurriedly 
rose  to  follow  her.  Alden  intercepted  her. 
"No,"  he  said,  quietly.  "There  are  things 
to  be  said  between  you  and  me." 

"  I  thought,"  Edith  murmured,  as  she  sank 
into  the  chair  he  offered  her,  "  that  everything 
was  said  last  night." 

"Everything?  Perhaps,  but  not  for  the 
last  time." 

She  leaned  forward,  into  the  light,  put  her 
elbows  upon  the  table,  and  rested  her  head 
upon  her  clasped  hands,  as  though  to  shade 
her  eyes.  "Well?"  she  said,  wearily. 

"Look  at  me!" 


2O6 


flDaster  of  tbe  IDineparfc 


Vows  an& 
tbe  law 


Her  hands  trembled,  but  she  did  not  move. 
He  leaned  across  the  table,  unclasped  her 
hands  gently,  and  forced  her  to  look  at 
him.  Her  eyes  were  swimming  with  unshed 
tears. 

"Darling!  My  darling!  Have  I  made  you 
unhappy?" 

"No,"  she  faltered.     "How  could  you?" 

He  came  to  her,  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair,  slipped  his  arm  around  her,  and  held 
her  close  against  his  shoulder.  "Listen," 
he  said.  "You  belong  to  me,  don't  you?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Could  you — could  you — make  yourself 
free?" 

"Yes,  as  you  mean  it,  I  could." 

"Then — when?" 

"Never!"  The  word  rang  clear,  tensely 
vibrant  with  denial. 

"  Edith !    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Releasing  herself  she  stood  and  faced  him. 
"This,"  she  said.  "At  the  altar  I  pledged 
myself  in  these  words:  'Until  death  do  us 
part,'  and  '  Forsaking  all  others,  keep  thee  only 
unto  me  so  long  as  we  both  shall  live.'  Is  n't 
that  plain?" 

"The  law,"  he  began. 

"Law!"  repeated  Edith.  "Why  don't  you 
say  perjury,  and  be  done  with  it?" 

"Dearest,  you  don't  understand.    You 

"I  know  what  I  said,"  she  reminded  him, 


ZIbe  Xigbt  betore  a  Sbrfne  2°7 

grimly.  "  I  said  '  For  better  or  worse/  not  'for 
better'  only." 

"  You  promised  to  love  and  to  honour  also, 
did  n't  you?" 

Edith  bowed  her  head.  "I  did,"  she 
answered,  in  a  low  tone,  "and  I  have,  and, 
God  helping  me,  I  shall  do  so  again." 

"Have  I  no  rights?"  he  asked,  with  a  sigh. 

He  could  scarcely  hear  the  murmured 
answer:  "None." 

"Nor  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  avoiding  his  eyes, 
then  suddenly  turned  and  faced  him.  "What 
of  your  own  honour?"  she  demanded.  "What 
of  Miss  Starr?" 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  he  replied, 
miserably.  "I  have  thought  of  nothing  else 
all  day." 

Edith  leaned  back  against  the  table. 
"What,"  she  asked,  curiously,  "were  you 
planning  to  do?" 

The  dull  colour  rose  to  his  temples.  "Go 
to  her,"  he  said,  with  his  face  averted,  "tell 
her  the  truth  like  a  man,  and  ask  for  freedom." 

She  laughed — the  sort  of  laugh  one  hears 
from  a  woman  tossing  in  delirium.  Madame 
heard  it,  upstairs,  and  shuddered. 

"Like  a  man!"  Edith  repeated,  scornfully. 

"Say  it,"  he  said,  roughly.  "Like  a  cad, 
if  that 's  what  you  mean." 

She   laughed   again,    but   with   a   different 


208 


flDaster  ot  tbe 


Suppose 
"Chore  f  8 
Bnotber 

tQornan 


cadence.  "Ask  yourself  first,"  she  continued, 
"and  then  be  honest  with  me.  How  would 
you  feel?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  uneasily.  "  I 
admit  it,  but  I  'm  willing  to  pay  the  price. 
I  '11  feel  like  a  cad  all  the  rest  of  my  life,  if  I 
must,  in  order  to  have  you." 

"  If  a  man  has  no  self-respect,"  she  retorted, 
"what  can  he  expect  from  his 

"Wife,"  breathed  Alden,  in  a  rapturous 
whisper.  "Oh,  Edith,  say  you  will!" 

She  turned  away,  for  she  could  not  force 
herself  to  meet  his  eyes.  Her  little  white 
hands  clasped  the  edge  of  the  table  tightly. 

"Have  you  thought  of  this?"  he  con 
tinued.  "Suppose,  for  him,  there  is  another 
woman " 

"There  is  n't,"  she  denied.     "I  know  that." 

"Perhaps  not  in  the  sense  you  mean,  but 
if  he  were  free ?" 

Edith  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  never 
thought  of  that." 

Steadily  the  man  pursued  his  advantage. 
"There  must  be  some  reason  for  his  treating 
you  as  he  does — for  making  you  miserable.  If, 
for  any  cause  whatever,  he  wanted  his  freedom, 
would  it  make — any  difference  to  you?" 

She  tapped  her  foot  restlessly  upon  the 
floor.  The  atmosphere  was  surcharged  with 
expectancy,  then  grew  tense  with  waiting. 
Alden's  eyes  never  swerved  from  her  face. 


Xigbt  Before  a  S brine 


"Have  you  any  right,  through  principles 
of  your  own,  which  I  thoroughly  understand 
and  respect,  to  keep  a  man  bound  who  desires 
to  be  free?" 

She  swayed  back  and  forth  unsteadily. 
Alden  assisted  her  to  her  chair  and  stood  before 
her  as  she  sat  with  her  elbows  upon  her  knees, 
her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  With  the  pre 
cise  observation  one  accords  to  trifles  in 
moments  of  unendurable  stress,  he  noted  that 
two  of  the  hooks  which  fastened  her  gown  at 
the  back  of  her  neck  had  become  unfastened 
and  that  the  white  flesh  showed  through  the 
opening. 

"If,"  said  Alden,  mercilessly,  "he  longs 
for  his  freedom,  and  the  law  permits  him  to 
take  it,  have  you  the  right  to  force  your  prin 
ciples  upon  him — and  thus  keep  him  miserable 
when  he  might  otherwise  be  happy?" 

The  clock  in  the  hall  struck  ten.  The  sound 
died  into  silence  and  the  remorseless  tick-tick 
went  on.  Outside  a  belated  cricket  fiddled 
bravely  as  he  fared  upon  his  way.  The  late 
moon  flooded  the  room  with  light. 

"Have  you?"  demanded  Alden.  He  en 
deavoured  to  speak  calmly,  but  his  voice  shook. 
"Answer  me!" 

Edith  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  white  and 
troubled.  "I  don't  know,"  she  murmured, 
with  lips  that  scarcely  moved.  "Before  God, 
I  don't  know!" 


210  flDaster  ot  tbe  IDinegarfc 


The  man  went  on  pitilessly.     "Don't  you 
1    tv 

Xettec 


a    think  you  might  find  out?    Before  you  con 


demn  yourself  and  me  to  everlasting  separa 
tion,  don't  you  think  you  might  at  least  ask 
him?" 

"Yes,"  said  Edith,  slowly.  "I  might  ask 
him.  I  '11  go " 

"No,  you  needn't  go.    Can't  you  write?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned.     "I  can  write." 

All  the  emotion  had  gone  from  her  voice. 
She  said  the  words  as  meaninglessly  as  a 
parrot  might. 

"A  letter  has  distinct  advantages,"  remarked 
Alden,  trying  to  speak  lightly.  "You  can 
say  all  you  want  to  say  before  the  other  person 
has  a  chance  to  put  in  a  word." 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  in  the  same  meaningless 
tone.  "That  is  true." 

"When,"  queried  Alden,  after  a  pause, 
"will  you  write?" 

"To-morrow." 

He  nodded  his  satisfaction.  "Tell  him," 
he  suggested,  "that  you  love  another  man, 
and " 

"No,"  she  interrupted,  "I  won't  tell  him 
that.  I  '11  say  that  I  've  tried  my  best  to  be 
a  good  wife,  that  I  've  tried  as  best  I  knew  to 
make  him  happy.  I  '11  say  I  've — "  she 
choked  on  the  word — "  I  '11  say  I  've  failed. 
I  '11  tell  him  I  can  do  no  more,  that  I  do  not 
believe  I  can  ever  do  any  better  than  I  have 


Ube  OUabt  before  a  Sbrtne 


done,  and  ask  him  to  tell  me  frankly  whether 
or  not  he  prefers  to  be  free.  That 's  all." 

"That  is  n't  enough.     You  have  rights " 

"We're  not  speaking  of  my  rights,"  she 
said,  coldly.  "We  're  speaking  of  his." 

A  silence  fell  between  them,  tense  and 
awkward.  The  open  gate  between  them  had 
turned  gently  upon  its  hinges,  then  closed, 
with  a  suggestion  of  finality.  The  clock 
struck  the  half  hour.  Outside,  the  cricket 
still  chirped  cheerily,  regardless  of  the  great 
issues  of  life  and  love. 

"Come  outside,"  Alden  pleaded,  taking  her 
hand  in  his. 

"No,"  she  said,  but  she  did  not  withdraw 
her  hand. 

"Come,  dear — come!" 

He  led  her  out  upon  the  veranda  where  the 
moon  made  far-reaching  shadows  with  the 
lattice  and  the  climbing  rose,  then  returned 
for  chairs,  the  same  two  in  which  they  had 
sat  the  night  before.  She  was  the  first  to 
break  the  pause. 

"  How  different  it  all  is ! "  she  sighed.  "  Last 
night  we  sat  here  in  the  moonlight,  just  where 
we  are  now.  In  twenty-four  hours,  every 
thing  has  changed." 

"  The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  1  think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy  soul." 

he  quoted  softly. 


212  flDaster  of  tbe  Wneparo 

"When  did  you— know?"  she  asked. 

"The  night  I  read  Rossetti  to  you  and 
kissed  your  arm,  do  you  remember?  It 
rushed  upon  me  like  an  overwhelming  flood. 
When  did  you  know?" 

"  I  think  I  've  always  known — not  the  fact, 
exactly,  but  the  possibility  of  it.  The  first 
night  I  came,  I  knew  that  you  and  I  could 
care  a  great  deal  for  each  other — not  that  we 
ever  would,  but  merely  that  we  might,  under 
different  circumstances.  In  a  way,  it  was 
as  though  a  set  of  familiar  conditions  might 
be  seen  in  a  different  aspect,  or  in  a  different 
light." 

"From  the  first,"  he  said,  "you've  meant 
a  great  deal  to  me,  in  every  way.  I  was  dis 
contented,  moody,  restless,  and  unhappy  when 
you  came.  That  was  mainly  responsible 
for- 

He  hesitated,  glanced  at  her,  accepted  her 
nod  of  understanding,  and  went  on. 

"I  've  hated  the  vineyard  and  the  rest  of 
my  work.  God  only  knows  how  I  've  hated 
it!  It's  seemed  sometimes  that  I  'd  die  if  I 
did  n't  get  away  from  it.  Mother  and  I  had 
it  out  one  day,  and  finally  I  decided  to  stay, 
merely  to  please  her.  Because  I  had  nothing 
more  to  do  than  to  make  her  happy,  I  deter 
mined  to  make  the  best  of  things.  You  've 
made  me  feel  that,  in  a  way,  it 's  myself  that 's 
at  stake.  I  want  to  take  it  and  make  it 


Ube  Xigbt  betore  a  Sbrine 


widely  known  among  vineyards,  as  it  has 
been — for  my  own  sake,  and  for  yours." 

Edith  leaned  toward  him,  full  into  the 
light.  Her  face,  still  pale,  was  rapt — almost 
holy.  To  him,  as  to  Madame  earlier  in  the 
day,  she  somehow  suggested  the  light  before  a 
shrine.  "Thank  you,"  she  said.  The  low, 
full  contralto  tones  were  vibrant  with  emotion. 

There  was  a  pause.  As  though  a  light  had 
been  suddenly  thrown  upon  one  groping  in 
darkness,  Alden  saw  many  things.  His  longing 
for  Edith,  while  no  less  intense,  became  subtly 
different.  He  seemed  to  have  turned  a  corner 
and  found  everything  changed. 

"Dear,"  he  went  on,  "there's  something 
wonderful  about  this.  I  've —  '  he  stopped 
and  cleared  his  throat.  "  I  mean  it 's  so 
exquisitely  pure,  so  transcendently  above 
passion.  Last  night,  when  I  had  you  in  my 
arms,  it  was  n't  man  and  woman — it  was  soul 
and  soul.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  I  know.  Passion  isn't  love — any 
more  than  hunger  is,  but  an  earth-bound 
world  seldom  sees  above  the  fog  of  sense." 

"  I  could  love  you  always,"  he  returned, 
"and  never  so  much  as  touch  your  hand  or 
kiss  you  again." 

She  nodded,  smiling  full  comprehension. 
Then  she  asked,  briefly:  "Why  write?" 

"Merely  because  we  belong  to  one  another 
in  a  divine  sense,  and  marriage  is  the  earthly 


/IDaster  ot  tbe  Dinegarfc 


sanction  of  it — or  ought  to  be.  If  you  and  I 
were  both  free,  and  I  thought  marriage  would 
in  any  way  change  this,  I — I  wouldn't  ask 
you  to  marry  me." 

Rising  from  her  chair,  she  bent  over,  kissed 
him  on  the  forehead,  went  to  the  lattice,  picked 
another  rose,  and  came  back.  "See,"  she 
said,  standing  in  the  light;  "life  and  beauty 
and  joy — all  in  a  rose." 

"And  love,"  he  added. 

"And  love."  She  held  it  at  arm's  length. 
Sharply  defined,  the  shadow  fell  upon  the 
white  floor  of  the  veranda,  perfect  in  line. 

"And  there,"  she  continued,  "is  the  same 
thing  in  another  form.  It  is  still  a  rose- 
anyone  can  see  that.  Only  the  colour  and 
fragrance  are  gone,  but  one  can  remember 
both.  To-morrow  I  '11  write,  and  find  out 
which  we  're  to  have — the  rose,  or  the  shadow 
of  the  rose." 

"It 's  chance,"  he  said,  "like  the  tossing  of 
a  coin." 

"Most  things  are,"  she  reminded  him. 
"Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  what  destinies 
attend  the  opening  or  closing  of  a  door?" 

He  made  no  answer.  "Good-night,"  she 
said,  with  a  smile. 

"Good-night,  my  beloved."  His  face  was 
illumined  with  "the  light  that  never  was  on 
sea  or  land,"  but  he  did  not  even  attempt 
to  touch  her  hand. 


XV 

Unlaib 

BEAUTY,' "  read  Grandmother  Starr,  with 
due  emphasis  upon  every  word, " '  is  the 
birthright  of  every  woman/  "  She  looked  up 
from  the  pages  of  The  Household  Guardian 
as  she  made  this  impressive  announcement. 
Rosemary  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  and  Miss 
Matilda  sat  at  the  other  window  mending  a 
three-cornered  tear  in  last  year's  brown  alpaca. 

'"The  first  necessity  of  beauty  is  an  erect 
carriage,'"  she  continued. 

"That  lets  us  out,"  commented  Matilda, 
"not  havin'  any  carriage  at  all." 

"Frank  used  to  say,"  said  Grandmother, 
irrelevantly,  "that  he  always  had  his  own 
carriage  until  his  Pa  and  me  got  tired  of 
pushin'  it." 

"What  kind  of  a  carriage  is  an  erect  car 
riage?"  queried  Matilda,  biting  off  her  thread. 

"I  ain't  never  heard  tell  of  'em,"  replied 
Grandmother,  cautiously,  "but  I  should  think, 
from  the  sound  of  it,  that  it  was  some  kind 
that  was  to  be  driv'  standin'  up." 


2l6 


toaster  of  tbe 


"Then  l  >ve  seen  'em-" 

"Where?"  Grandmother  lowered  her  spec 
tacles  to  the  point  where  they  rested  upon  the 
wart  and  peered  disconcertingly  at  Matilda. 
The  upper  part  of  the  steel  frames  crossed  her 
eyeballs  horizontally,  giving  her  an  uncanny 
appearance. 

"At  the  circus,  when  Pa  took  us.  After 
the  whole  show  was  over  they  had  what  they 
called  a  chariot  race,  and  women  driv'  around 
the  tent  in  little  two-wheeled  carts,  standin' 
up." 

"Matilda  Starr!  T  ain't  no  such  thing!" 

Matilda  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  an  air 
of  finality.  "All  right,"  she  returned,  with 
cold  sarcasm,  "as  long  as  you  see  it  and  I 
did  n't." 

"'Beauty  has  been  the  power  of  the  ages,'  " 
Grandmother  continued,  taking  refuge  once 
more  in  The  Household  Guardian.  "  '  Cleopatra 
and  Helen  of  Troy  changed  the  map  of  the 
world  by  their  imperial  loveliness.'" 

"I  didn't  know  imps  was  lovely,"  Matilda 
remarked,  frowning  at  the  result  of  her  labours. 
"  I  reckon  I  '11  have  to  set  a  piece  in  at  the 
corner,  where  it  's  puckerin'." 

"Ain't  I  always  told  you  that  the  only 
way  to  mend  a  three-cornered  tear  was  to  set 
a  piece  in?  Some  folks  never  get  old  enough 
to  learn  anything.  Even  Frank's  wife  would 
have  known  better  'n  that." 


f  nlatfc  3Boi 


"Never  mind  Frank's  wife,"  returned  Ma 
tilda,  somewhat  hurriedly.  "Let  her  rest  in 
her  grave  and  go  on  readin'  about  the  lovely 
imps." 

"It  doesn't  say  imps  is  lovely.  It  says 
'imperial  loveliness.'" 

"Well,  ain't  that  the  same  thing?" 

"No,  it  ain't.     Imperial  means  empire." 

"Then  why  ain't  it  spelled  so?  Imperial 
begins  with  an  i  and  so  does  imp,  and,  accordin' 
to  what  I  learned  when  I  went  to  school, 
empire  begins  with  an  e." 

There  seemed  to  be  no  adequate  reply  to 
this,  so  Grandmother  went  on:  "If  Cleopatra's 
nose  had  been  an  inch  longer,  where  would 
Egypt  have  been  now?" 

"Where  'tis,  I  reckon,"  Matilda  returned, 
seeing  that  an  answer  was  expected. 

"No,  it  would  n't." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  why  not,  but  if  it  would  n't 
have  made  no  difference,  the  man  that  wrote 
the  piece  would  n't  have  asked  about  it." 

"Well,  then,  let  him  answer  it  himself,  as 
long  as  he  knows." 

"'Wars  have  been  fought  over  beautiful 
women,'"  Grandmother  resumed,  "'and  will 
continue  to  be  till  the  end  of  time.'" 

"What  about  Egypt?"  interrupted  Matilda. 

"I  ain't  come  to  that  yet.  Let  me  alone, 
can't  you?  '  Every  mother  should  begin  with 


218 


dDaster  of  tbe 


her  child  almost  from  the  moment  of  birth, 
paper's      Projecting  ears  can  be  corrected  by  the  wearing 

Circulation         ,    J    .       °  ,,•,.,  • 

of  a  simple  cap,  and  a  little  daily  attention  to 
the  nose  in  the  way  of  gentle  pinching  with 
the  fingers,  will  insure  the  proper  shape.  This 
of  course,  must  be  done  while  the  cartilage  is 
easily  pushed  into  the  proper  position.'" 

"While  the  what?"  Matilda  demanded. 

"Cart-i-lage.  It  means  before  the  child  has 
outgrown  its  buggy.  'Teeth  and  complexion 
are  to  be  considered  later,  but  must  be  looked 
after  carefully.  Every  woman  should  bear  in 
mind  the  fact  that  a  good  complexion  comes 
from  the  inside.' " 

"The  man  what  wrote  that  piece  ain't  got 
the  slightest  idea  of  what  he  's  talkin'  about." 

Grandmother  transfixed  Matilda  with  an 
icy  stare.  Then,  turning  to  the  last  page  of 
the  paper,  she  read,  with  due  attention  to 
emphasis:  "'The  Household  Guardian  is  read 
every  week  in  more  than  one  million  homes. 
Averaging  five  people  to  each  family,  this 
means  that  five  million  people,  every  Thursday, 
are  eagerly  watching  for  the  regular  issue  of 
The  Household  Guardian.'  If  he  don't  know 
what  he  's  talkin'  about,  why  are  five  million 
people  waitin'  for  the  paper?  Answer  me  that, 
Matilda  Starr,  if  you  can!" 

"There  ain't  five  in  every  family,"  Matilda 
objected.  "That  means  the  Pa  and  Ma  and 
three  children." 


ZTbe 


Bo* 


"Maybe  not.  Maybe  it's  the  Ma  and  Pa 
and  two  children  and  an  Aunt  or  an  Uncle  or 
some  other  of  the  family  connection." 

"Well,  even  if  there's  only  two  children, 
if  their  Ma  is  makin'  'em  caps  to  hold  back 
their  ears  and  pinchin'  their  noses  regular, 
she  ain't  got  no  time  to  have  her  own  nose 
flattened  out  against  the  glass  lookin'  for  The 
Household  Guardian." 

'"If,  however,  through  ignorance  or  the  press 
of  other  occupations,'  "  Grandmother  resumed, 
clearing  her  throat,  "  '  this  early  care  has  not 
been  given,  every  woman,  no  matter  what  her 
circumstances  are,  may  at  least  be  well- 
groomed.'  ''' 

Matilda  giggled  hysterically. 

"What 's  the  matter  now?"  queried  Grand 
mother,  with  interest. 

"  I  was  just  thinkin'  about  the  erect  carriage 
and  the  groomin'.  The  man  what  wrote  that 
piece  seems  to  think  a  woman  is  a  horse. 
Reckon  I  '11  get  myself  a  curry-comb." 

"It  might  improve  the  looks  of  your  hair 
some  if  you  did,"  the  old  lady  observed, 
caustically.  "  '  No  woman  is  so  poor  that  she 
cannot  take  the  time  to  attend  to  her  personal 
appearance,  nor  so  rich  that  she  can  afford  to 
neglect  it.  The  hair  should  be  shampooed  at 
— Continued  on  page  sixty -seven.' " 

"The  hair  should  be  what?" 

"'Shampooed  at  least  once  a  month.'" 


220  dDaster  ot  tbe  IDine^arO 

face  "What's  that?" 

"Don't  interrupt,"  commanded  the  old 
lady,  with  the  dull  red  burning  on  her  withered 
cheeks.  "Here  I  am  readin'  to  you  and 
tryin'  to  improve  your  mind  and  all  the  time 
you  're  interruptin'  me." 

"Only  to  ask  questions,"  Matilda  returned, 
with  affected  submission.  "  If  I  'm  to  have 
my  mind  improved  I  want  it  well  done." 

"In  the  intervals  it  should  be  frequently 
brushed,  and  the  regular  weekly  face  massage' 
— that's  printed  wrong — 'the  regular  weekly 
face  message  should  not  be  neglected.'" 

."What's  a  face  message?"  asked  Matilda, 
curiosity  overcoming  prudence. 

"Anything  that's  said  to  anybody,  I  sup 
pose.  Now  don't  speak  to  me  again.  'The 
nails  must  also  be  taken  care  of  and  one  or 
two  visits  to  a  good  manicure  will  show  any 
woman  how  it  is  to  be  done.  The  implements 
are  not  expensive  and  will  last— 

"What 's  a  manicure?" 

"Some  kind  of  a  doctor,  I  reckon, — 'and  will 
last  a  long  time.  A  few  simple  exercises  should 
be  taken  every  night  and  morning  to  preserve 
the  fig — Continued  on  page  seventy.' " 

"Preservin'  figs  ain't  any  particular  ex 
ercise,"  Matilda  observed,  shaking  out  the 
mended  skirt.  "  You  can  do  most  of  it  settin' 
down." 

'"Preserve  the  figure,' "  Grandmother  con- 


Inlaffc  Box 


tinued  with  emphasis.  "Soap  and  hot  water 
may  be  used  on  the  face  if  a  good  cold  cream 
is  well  rubbed  into  the  pores  immediately 
afterward.' " 

"Vanilla  or  lemon?"  Matilda  asked. 

"It  doesn't  say  ice-cream,  it  just  says 
cold  cream.  'Cucumber  milk  is  excellent  for 
freckles  or  tan,  and— 

"  I  reckon  I  won't  hear  no  more,"  said 
Matilda.  Her  lips  were  compressed  into  a 
thin  tight  line.  "I  can  stand  the  carriages 
that  are  to  be  driv'  standin'  up,  and  the 
lovely  imps  and  the  nose  pinchin'  and  the  caps 
for  the  ears,  but  when  it  comes  to  goin'  out 
every  mornin'  to  milk  the  cucumbers,  I  don't 
feel  called  on  to  set  and  listen  to  it.  The  man 
what  wrote  that  piece  was  as  crazy  as  a  loon, 
and  if  five  million  people  read  his  paper  every 
week,  four  million,  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  thousand  and  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  of  'em  know  it.  I  ain't  sayin'  who's 
the  one  that  don't." 

She  sailed  majestically  out  of  the  room 
with  her  head  held  high,  and  her  frowsy  grey 
hair  bristling  with  indignation.  Grand 
mother's  lower  jaw  dropped  in  amazement 
for  a  moment,  then  she  returned  to  the  paper. 
"Millkin'  the  cucumbers  don't  seem  quite 
right,"  she  said  to  herself,  "but  there  it  is  in 
print,  as  plain  as  day." 

For  the  first  time  her  faith  in  the  printed 


222 


/Raster  of  tbe 


mother 
Sees  tbe 
Stranger 


word  wavered.  "Maybe  there's  some  special 
kind  of  cucumber,"  she  mused,  "that  gives 
milk.  We  used  to  hear  'em  called  cowcumbers. 
Why  'd  they  be  called  that  if  they  did  n't 
give  milk?  There  's  only  the  two  kinds  as  far 
as  I  know — the  tame  and  wild,  and  the  wild 
ones—  The  light  of  pure  intellectual  joy 
dawned  upon  the  puzzled  old  face.  "Of 
course.  Don't  I  remember  the  white  sticky 
juice  inside  the  wild  ones?  That 'sit!  Wait 
till  I  tell  Matilda!" 

Triumphantly  she  returned  to  The  House 
hold  Guardian,  and,  in  her  new  allegiance, 
read  every  line  of  every  advertisement  before 
folding  it  carefully  and  putting  it  away  with 
the  others.  "Good  for  freckles  and  tan," 
she  said  to  herself,  meditatively,  "but  it  did  n't 
say  nothin'  about  warts.  Maybe  that  '11  be 
in  next  week's  paper." 

While  she  sat  looking  out  of  the  window  a 
woman  passed,  walking  so  slowly  that  Grand 
mother  had  plenty  of  time  to  observe  her. 
As  the  stranger  turned  her  head  neither  to  the 
right  nor  the  left,  the  old  lady's  intense  scrutiny 
was  attended  by  no  embarrassment. 

From  the  fragmentary  description  that  had 
come  her  way,  she  at  once  recognised  Mrs. 
Lee — the  tall,  straight  figure  in  a  gown  of  pale 
green  linen,  the  dainty,  regular  features,  and 
the  crown  of  wonderful  hair,  radiating  sunlit 
splendour,  as  she  wore  no  hat. 


ZTbe  tfnlaffc  Box 


A  letter  in  her  hand  betrayed  the  object  of 
her  passing.  "She  's  goin'  to  the  post-office," 
Grandmother  mused,  "and  if  she  comes  back 
this  way,  I  '11  see  her  again.  Matilda  ain't 
seen  her  but  twice  and  then  she  had  a  hat  on." 

Mrs.  Lee  did,  indeed,  come  back  that  way, 
but  gave  no  sign  that  she  saw,  or  even  felt, 
the  presence  of  the  keen  observer  in  the  window 
of  the  little  brown  house.  Grandmother 
hoped  that  Matilda  was  not  peering  from  an 
upper  window.  Perhaps  she  would  tell  her 
immediately,  and  perhaps  she  would  n't. 
While  she  was  considering  this  point,  Rose 
mary  came  in,  wiping  her  hands  upon  her 
apron,  and  announced  that  she  was  ready  to 
go  to  the  store. 

Rapidly  giving  a  list  of  the  articles  desired, 
Grandmother  rose  from  her  chair,  lifted  her 
skirts,  and  from  some  safe  inner  pocket,  drew 
out  a  black  bag,  which  was  evidently  fastened 
around  her  waist  with  a  string.  This  bag 
contained  another,  closely  wrapped.  Inside 
was  a  much  worn  leather  "wallet,"  from  which 
Grandmother  extracted  a  two-dollar  bill  and 
some  pennies. 

"Run  along,  Rosemary.  I  reckon  that'll 
be  enough." 

Rosemary  obeyed,  privately  wondering  for 
the  thousandth  time  whence  came  Grand 
mother's  money.  Neither  she  nor  Matilda  had 
ever  dared  to  ask,  but  when  the  supply  gave 


224 


/IDaster  of  tbe  Dinegaro 


it  seemei*  out,  the  old  lady  always  produced  a  twenty- 
dollar  gold  piece  from  the  magic  bag. 

When  she  returned  from  her  errand,  Aunt 
Matilda  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and  Grand 
mother,  nodding  in  her  chair  by  the  window, 
had  not  been  awakened  by  the  opening  and 
closing  of  the  door.  Rosemary  went  up-stairs, 
and,  from  sounds  that  penetrated  the  hall 
through  the  closed  door  of  Aunt  Matilda's 
room,  inferred  that  she  also  was  taking  an 
afternoon  nap. 

If  she  could  only  write  to  Alden,  and  tell 
him  he  was  free!  Night  after  night  she  had 
pondered  over  ways  and  means.  It  seemed 
odd  that  in  a  house  where  there  was  always 
plenty  to  eat  and  to  wear,  of  a  certain  sort, 
stationery  and  stamps  should  be  practically 
unknown.  Grandmother  had  used  the  last 
sheet  of  paper  and  the  last  envelope  when  she 
ordered  the  bolt  of  brown  alpaca,  and  with 
stern  suspicion  held  Rosemary  to  account  for 
every  penny  with  which  she  was  entrusted. 

If  she  had  paper  and  an  envelope,  perhaps 
she  might  ask  the  storekeeper  to  send  the  note 
up  with  the  Marshs'  groceries,  or,  better  yet, 
she  might  go  up  to  the  house  herself  very  early 
some  morning  or  very  late  some  night  and 
slip  it  under  the  front  door.  In  that  way,  she 
would  be  sure  he  received  it.  Rosemary 
brightened  as  she  saw  that  a  stamp  would  not 
really  be  necessary  after  all. 


Ube  flnlaifc  Box  225 

If  only,  among  her  mother's  things  in  thei:osemars 
attic,  there  might  bean  envelope!    She  could  1 0^ 
use   brown   wrapping   paper   to  write   upon,  et  tbe*ox 
if  worst  came  to  worst — the  storekeeper  might 
even  give  her  a  small,  fresh  piece  of  the  pale 
yellow  sort.    Rosemary  knew  every  separate 
article  in  the  trunk,  however,  even  the  inlaid 
box  to  which  the  key  was  missing.     She  had 
never  dared  to  ask  for  the  key,  much  less  to 
break  open  the  box,  but  to-day,  the  courage 
of    desperation    sustained    her    and    she    ran 
quickly  up-stairs. 

Long  afternoon  sunbeams,  sweet  with  June, 
came  into  the  attic,  and  made  fairy  gold  of  the 
dust  as  they  entered  the  room.  It  had  none 
of  the  charm  which  belongs  to  every  well- 
regulated  attic;  it  was  merely  a  storehouse,  full 
of  cobwebs  and  dust.  A  few  old  trunks  were 
stored  there,  all  empty  save  the  small  hair 
cloth  trunk  which  held  Rosemary's  mother's 
few  possessions  that  had  outlived  her. 

She  opened,  it,  found  the  box,  and  dis 
covered  that  she  had  forgotten  the  scissors 
with  which  she  intended  to  break  the  lock. 
She  wondered  whether  she  might  safely  risk 
the  trip  down-stairs  after  the  scissors,  or 
whether  it  would  be  better  to  take  the  box 
with  her  and  hide  it  in  her  room.  Before  she 
had  made  up  her  mind,  she  heard  a  slow, 
heavy  tread  upon  the  stair. 

She  could  not  go  down  and  she  did  not  wish 


226  flDaster  ot  tbe  Dinegarfc 

to  be  found  with  the  box — indeed,  she  dared 
not.  She  cowered  back  under  the  eaves  and 
lay  flat  on  the  floor  behind  the  trunk,  just  as 
Grandmother  came  into  the  attic. 

For  a  moment  the  old  lady  paused,  her  keen 
eyes  searching  the  room  as  though  she  felt  a 
presence  which  she  did  not  see.  Rosemary  lay 
very  quietly  upon  the  floor,  though  fearing 
that  the  loud  beating  of  her  heart  might  be 
heard  in  the  stillness. 

Reassured,  and  not  in  the  least  lame, 
Grandmother  went  to  the  brick  chimney  that 
came  up  through  the  attic,  and  mounted  a 
decrepit  chair.  She  scratched  and  pried  at  a 
certain  brick  with  her  scissors,  then  removed 
it  quietly.  Reaching  in,  she  drew  out  a 
black  bag,  whence  came  a  sound  of  tinkling 
metal.  Rosemary,  peering  around  the  corner 
of  the  trunk,  could  scarcely  believe  the  evidence 
of  her  own  senses. 

Grandmother  took  out  a  twenty-dollar  gold 
piece,  restored  the  bag  to  its  place,  put  the 
brick  back,  and  went  down-stairs  with  the 
quiet,  stealthy  movement  of  a  cat. 

Presently  Rosemary  went  down-stairs  also, 
with  the  box,  stopping  to  leave  it  in  her  own 
room.  Cold  with  excitement,  she  trembled 
when  she  went  into  the  kitchen  and  began  to 
make  preparations  for  supper.  She  heard 
warring  voices  in  the  sitting-room,  then  Grand 
mother  came  to  the  kitchen  door. 


f  nlaffc  JSoi 


"Oh,"  she  said.  "So  you  came  in  the  back 
way.  I  did  n't  hear  you  come  in.  Reckon  I 
must  have  been  asleep." 

Rosemary  did  not  answer.  She  longed  to 
be  alone  in  her  own  room  with  the  inlaid  box, 
which  now  assumed  a  mystery  and  portent  it 
had  never  had  before,  but  it  was  almost 
midnight  before,  by  the  flickering  light  of 
a  candle-end,  she  broke  it  open,  smother 
ing  the  slight  sound  with  the  patch-work 
quilt. 

She  hoped  for  stationery,  but  there  was  none. 
It  contained  an  old  photograph  and  a  letter 
addressed  to  Grandmother  Starr.  Rosemary 
leaned  to  the  light  with  the  photograph,  study 
ing  it  eagerly.  It  was  old  and  faded,  but  the 
two  were  still  distinct  —  a  young  woman  in  an 
elaborate  wedding  gown,  standing  beside  a 
man  who  was  sitting  upon  an  obviously  un 
comfortable  chair. 

The  man,  in  a  way,  resembled  Grandmother 
Starr;  the  lady  looked  like  Rosemary,  except 
that  she  was  beautiful.  "  Father!"  cried  Rose 
mary,  in  an  agonising  whisper.  "Mother!" 
Face  to  face  at  last  with  those  of  her  own 
blood,  dead  though  they  were! 

The  little  mother  was  not  more  than  two  or 
three  and  twenty:  the  big  strong  father  was 
about  twenty-five.  She  had  never  been  shown 
the  picture,  nor  had  even  guessed  its  existence, 
Since  she  was  old  enough  to  think  about  it  all, 


228  /iDaster  of  tbe  Dineparfc 


*er      she  had  wondered  what  her  father  and  mother 

Jfatbet'i     ,      .      .... 

letter    looked  like. 

Thrilled  with  a  new,  mysterious  sense  of 
kinship,  she  dwelt  lovingly  upon  every  line 
of  the  pictured  faces,  holding  the  photograph 
safely  beyond  the  reach  of  the  swift-falling 
tears.  She  was  no  longer  fatherless,  mother 
less;  alone.  Out  of  the  dust  of  the  past,  like 
some  strangely  beautiful  resurrection,  these 
two  had  come  to  her,  richly  dowered  with 
personality. 

It  was  late  when  she  put  down  the  picture 
and  took  up  the  letter,  which  was  addressed 
to  Grandmother  Starr.  She  took  it  out  of 
the  envelope,  unfolded  the  crackling,  yellowed 
pages,  and  read: 

"Dear  Mother; 

"Since  writing  to  you  yesterday  that  I 
was  going  up  north  on  the  Clytie,  I  have  been 
thinking  about  the  baby,  and  that  it  might  be 
wise  to  provide  for  her  as  best  I  can  in  case 
anything  should  happen  to  me.  So  I  enclose 
a  draft  for  eleven  thousand  five  hundred  dollars 
made  payable  to  you.  I  have  realised  on  my 
property  here,  but  this  is  all  I  have  aside  from 
my  passage-money  and  a  little  more,  and,  if 
I  land  safely,  I  shall  probably  ask  you  to  return 
at  least  a  large  part  of  it. 

"But,  if  the  ship  should  go  down,  as  I  sin 
cerely  hope  it  won't,  she  will  be  sure  of  this, 


Ube  Unlaifc  36oi  229 


for  her  clothing  and  education.     In  case  any- 

• 


thing  should  happen  to  her,  of  course  I  would    • 


want  you  and  Matilda  to  have  the  money, 
but  if  it  does  n't,  give  Rosemary  everything 
she  needs  or  wants  while   the  money  lasts, 
and  oh,  mother,  be  good  to  my  little  girl! 
"  Your  loving  son, 

"  Frank." 

In  a  flash  of  insight  Rosemary  divined  the 
truth.  The  gold  hidden  behind  the  loose 
brick  in  the  chimney  was  hers,  given  to  her 
by  her  dead  father.  And  she  had  not  even  a 
postage  stamp! 

But  swiftly  her  anger  died  away  in  joy  —  a 
joy  that  surged  and  thrilled  through  her  as 
some  white,  heavenly  fire  that  warmed  her 
inmost  soul.  Not  alone,  but  cared  for  —  shel 
tered,  protected,  loved.  "Oh,"  breathed  Rose 
mary,  with  her  eyes  shining;  "Father,  dear 
father  —  my  father,  taking  care  of  me!" 
Then,  in  her  thought,  she  added,  without 
dreaming  of  irreverence,  "I  think  God  must 
be  like  that!" 


230 


XVI 


©ne  kittle  1bour 


Ube  TT wo 
faces 


WHEN  she  awoke  in  the  morning  it  was 
with  a  bewildering  sense  of  change. 
Something  had  happened,  and,  in  the  first 
moment,  she  was  not  quite  sure  whether  a 
dream  had  not  boldly  overstepped  the  line 
into  daylight.  The  faded  photograph,  propped 
up  on  the  table  at  the  head  of  her  bed,  at 
once  reassured  her,  and  Rosemary  smiled, 
with  a  joy  so  great  that  it  was  almost  pain 
tugging  at  the  fibres  of  her  heart. 

To  an  outsider,  perhaps,  the  two  faces  would 
have  been  common  enough,  but  one  of  love's 
divinest  gifts  is  the  power  to  bestow  beauty 
wherever  it  goes.  The  old  man,  bent  with 
years,  with  the  snows  of  his  fourscore  winters 
lying  heavily  upon  his  head,  may  seem  an 
object  of  kindly  pity  as  he  hobbles  along  with 
crutch  or  cane,  going  oh,  so  slowly,  where  once 
his  feet  were  fain  to  run  from  very  joy  of  living. 
The  light  may  be  gone  from  his  faded  eyes,  his 
dull  ears  may  not  respond  to  question  or  call, 
but  one  face,  waiting  at  a  window,  shall 


©nc  Xittle  t)our 


231 


illumine  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  one  voice, 
thrilling  with  tenderness,  shall  stir  him  to 
eager  answer. 

Or  a  woman,  worn  and  broken,  her  rough 
hands  made  shapeless  by  toil,  may  seem  to 
have  no  claim  to  beauty  as  the  word  is  com 
monly  understood.  Sleepless  nights,  per 
chance,  have  dimmed  her  eyes,  suffering  and 
sacrifice  have  seamed  and  marked  her  face,  but 
those  to  whom  she  has  given  herself  see  only 
the  great  nobleness  of  her  nature,  the  royalty 
of  her  soul.  For  the  beauty  of  the  spirit  may 
transfigure  its  earth-bound  temple,  as  some 
vast  and  grey  cathedral  with  light  streaming 
from  its  stained  glass  windows,  and  eloquent 
with  chimes  and  singing,  may  breathe  incense 
and  benediction  upon  every  passer-by. 

And  so,  for  those  to  whom  love  has  come, 
beauty  has  come  also,  but  merely  as  the 
reflection  in  the  mirror,  since  only  love  may 
see  and  understand  the  thing  itself.  Purify 
ing,  uplifting,  and  exalting,  making  sense  the 
humble  servant  and  not  the  tyrannical  master, 
renewing  itself  for  ever  at  divine  fountains 
that  do  not  fail,  inspiring  to  fresh  sacrifice, 
urging  onward  with  new  courage,  redeeming 
all  mistakes  with  its  infinite  pardon;  this, 
indeed  is  Love,  which  neither  dies  nor  grows 
old.  And,  since  God  himself  is  Love,  what 
further  assurance  do  we  require  of  immortality? 

Upon  the  two  in  the  faded  picture  the  most 


Scaut? 

tbe  TEwin 

of  love 


232  /toaster  of  tbe 


effects  o  exquisite  mystery  of  life  had  wrought  its 
picture  transfiguration.  Vaguely  conscious  of  the  un 
familiar  and  uncomfortable  chair  in  which  he 
sat,  the  young  man  looked  out  upon  Rosemary, 
bone  of  his  bone  and  flesh  of  his  flesh,  with 
an  all-embracing,  all-understanding  love.  It 
came  to  her  with  a  sense  of  surprise  that 
father  was  only  a  little  older  than  she  was; 
he  had  paused,  and  she,  receiving  the  gift  of 
life  from  him,  had  gone  on.  And  the  little 
mother,  brave  in  her  white  satin,  with  her  long 
veil  trailing  down  from  her  wreath  of  orange 
blossoms;  she  too,  loved  Rosemary;  indeed, 
with  a  holy  deepening  of  her  soul,  she  loved 
the  whole  world. 

The  picture  must  have  been  taken  very  soon 
after  the  ceremony.  Rosemary  fancied  that 
they  had  gone  to  the  photographer's  with  one 
or  more  of  the  wedding  guests,  while  the 
revelry  and  feasting  still  went  on.  And  yet, 
so  soon,  into  the  woman's  eyes  had  come  the 
look  of  wistfulness,  almost  of  prayer,  as  though 
she  had  suddenly  come  face  to  face  with  the 
knowledge  that  love,  like  a  child,  is  man's  to 
give  and  woman's  to  keep,  to  guard,  to  nourish, 
to  suffer  for,  and,  perhaps,  last  of  all,  to  lose. 

The  mother-hunger  woke  in  Rosemary  a 
strange  longing.  What  joy  to  serve  this  little 
mother,  to  whom  her  child  was  as  unknown 
then  as  now!  What  ecstasy  to  uncoil  the 
smooth  strands  of  brown  hair,  take  the  white 


©ne  SLfttle  Tbour 


shoes  from  the  tiny  feet,  destined  to  tread  the 
unfamiliar  ways  of  pain;  to  breathe  the  soft 
sweetness  of  her  neck  and  arms!  The  big, 
strong  father,  lovably  boyish  now,  appealed  to 
her  with  a  sense  of  shelter,  for  valiantly  he 
stood,  or  had  tried  to  stand,  between  his  child 
and  the  world,  but,  from  the  other  came 
something  more. 

"I  think,"  said  Rosemary,  to  herself,  "that 
she  must  have  kissed  me  before  she  died." 

That  day  she  went  about  her  tasks  as  might 
a  dweller  from  another  planet,  who  had  set 
his  body  to  carry  on  his  appointed  duties, 
while  his  spirit  roamed  the  blue  infinite  spaces 
between  the  day-stars  and  the  sun.  Early  in 
the  afternoon  she  left  the  house,  without  asking 
whether  she  might  go,  or  saying  when  she 
would  be  back.  She  even  had  the  audacity 
to  leave  the  luncheon  dishes  piled  in  the  sink, 
and  unwashed. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Hill  of  the  Muses,  she 
paused,  then  shook  her  head.  She  could  never 
go  there  again,  though  the  thought  of  Alden 
now  brought  no  anguish — only  a  great  sadness. 
A  mocking  smile  curled  her  lips  at  the  memory 
of  her  futile  struggles  toward  stationery  and  a 
stamp,  that  she  might  set  him  free.  How 
could  he  be  more  free  than  he  was,  untroubled, 
doubtless,  by  even  the  thought  of  her? 

She  began  to  perceive,  though  dimly,  the 
divinity  that  shapes  our  humblest  affairs.  In 


234  /Easter  ot  tbe 


the  search  for  an  envelope,  she  had  found  her 
father  and  mother,  as  was  doubtless  meant 
from  the  beginning.  Surely  she  had  never 
needed  them  more  than  she  did  now!  If  it 
had  been  meant  for  her  to  have  stationery, 
and  to  set  Alden  free  in  that  way,  it  would 
have  been  mysteriously  provided  —  she  was 
certain  of  that. 

She  saw,  too,  that  the  way  upon  which  we 
are  meant  to  go  is  always  clear,  or  at  least 
indicated,  at  the  time  we  are  meant  to  take  it; 
that  guidance  is  definitely  felt  through  the 
soul's  own  overpowering  conviction.  The 
struggle  and  the  terror  fell  away  from  her  like 
a  garment  she  had  cast  aside,  and  for  the 
moment  she  emerged  into  freedom  as  before 
she  had  come  into  love. 

Deep  in  her  heart  she  still  loved  Alden,  but 
unselfishly.  This  new  Rosemary  asked  no 
thing  for  herself,  she  only  longed  to  give, 
though  freedom  might  be  her  best  gift  to  him. 
Harm  could  come  to  her  only  through  herself; 
the  burning  heart  and  the  racked  soul  had  been 
under  the  dominion  of  Fear. 

She  took  the  path  up  along  the  river,  that 
lay  half  asleep  and  crooning  drowsily  to  the 
little  clouds  that  were  mirrored  upon  its 
tranquil  breast.  Tiny  blue  pools  among  the 
rushes  at  the  bend  in  the  stream  gave  back 
glints  of  sapphire  and  turquoise,  with  now  and 
then  a  glimmer  of  gold.  Sometimes,  upon  a 


©ne  Xlttle  f>our 


hidden  rock,  the  river  swirled  and  rippled, 
breaking  murmurously  into  silver  and  pearl, 
but  steadily  beneath,  in  spite  of  all  outward 
seeming,  the  current  moved  endlessly  toward 
its  sea-born  destiny,  as  Man  himself  unto  the 
Everlasting. 

Singing  among  the  far  hills,  and  rushing 
downward  in  a  torrent  of  ecstatic  life,  the 
river  had  paused  in  the  valley  to  rest,  dream 
ing,  perchance,  of  the  long  cool  shadows  in 
the  uplands,  the  far  altar-fires  of  daybreak. 
There  were  pleasant  things  to  do  in  the  valley, 
to  lie  at  full  length,  basking  in  the  sun,  to  hum 
a  bit  of  the  old  music,  to  touch  gently  the  harp- 
strings  of  the  marsh  grass  and  rushes,  dimpling 
with  pleasure  at  the  faint  answer,  to  reflect 
every  passing  mood  of  cloud  and  sky,  even  to 
hold  the  little  clouds  as  a  mother  might,  upon 
its  deep  and  tender  bosom.  There  were  lily- 
pads  to  look  after,  too,  bird-shadows  and 
iridescent  dragon  flies,  sunset  lights  to  deepen 
and  spread  afar,  and,  at  night,  all  the  starry 
hosts  of  heaven  to  receive  and  give  back,  in 
luminous  mist,  to  the  waiting  dusk. 

Dawn  came  to  the  river  while  the  earth  still 
slept;  it  was  day  upon  the  waters  while  night 
lingered  upon  the  shore.  And,  too,  long  after 
the  abundant  life  of  field  and  meadow  was 
stilled  in  dreamless  peace,  past  the  power  of 
the  fairy  lamp-bearers  to  stir  or  to  annoy, 
the  river  lay  awake  and  watchful,  as  some 


236 


flDaster  of  tbe  UHneparfc 


/Burmur 
of  Voices 


divinely  appointed  guardian  of  the  Soul  of 
Things. 

The  peace  of  it  came  to  Rosemary,  as  she 
walked,  with  the  sense  of  healing,  of  balm. 
She  saw  plainly  how  Grandmother  had  wronged 
her,  every  day  of  her  life,  but  set  resentment 
aside,  simply,  as  something  that  did  not  belong 
to  her.  The  appointed  thing  came  at  the 
appointed  time  in  the  appointed  way — there 
was  no  terror  save  her  own  fear.  Outside 
herself  was  a  mass  of  circumstance  beyond  her 
control,  but,  within  herself,  was  the  power  of 
adjustment,  as,  when  two  dominant  notes  are 
given,  the  choice  of  the  third  makes  either 
dissonance  or  harmony. 

Tired,  at  last,  for  she  had  walked  far  up 
stream  into  the  hills,  Rosemary  sat  down  upon 
a  convenient  rock  to  rest.  The  shores  were 
steep,  now,  but  just  beyond  her  was  a  little 
cleft  between  two  hills — a  pleasant,  sunny 
space,  with  two  or  three  trees  and  a  great 
rock,  narrowing  back  into  a  thicket.  She 
went  on,  after  a  few  moments,  down  the 
slope  to  the  level  place,  lay  at  full  length 
upon  the  thick  turf,  and  drank  thirstily  from 
the  river. 

In  a  moment,  she  heard  the  slow  splash  of 
oars,  and  the  murmur  of  voices,  both  low  and 
deep,  though  one  evidently  belonged  to  a  man 
and  one  to  a  woman.  Boats  were  infrequent 
upon  the  river,  and,  not  caring  to  be  seen,  she 


©ne  Xfttle  1bour 


stepped  back  into  the  thicket  until  it  should 
pass. 

The  voices  came  nearer  and  nearer,  the 
man's  full-toned  and  vaguely  familiar,  the 
woman's  musical,  vibrant,  and,  in  a  way, 
familiar  too. 

A  single  powerful  stroke  brought  the  boat 
into  view,  as  it  rounded  the  curve.  It  was 
Alden  and  Edith.  The  girl  stepped  back  still 
farther  into  the  sheltering  thicket,  repressing 
the  cry  of  astonishment  that  rose  to  her  lips. 
Acutely  self-conscious,  it  seemed  that  the 
leaves  were  no  protection ;  that  she  stood  before 
them  helpless,  unconcealed. 

Trembling,  she  sat  down  on  a  low,  flat  stone, 
for  she  had  suddenly  become  too  weak  to 
stand.  Much  to  her  dismay,  Alden  swung 
the  head  of  the  boat  toward  the  shore.  They 
were  going  to  land! 

Mute  and  frightened,  she  watched  him  as 
he  assisted  her  to  the  shore,  saw  him  return 
to  the  boat  for  a  basket  covered  with  a  white 
cloth,  and  draw  the  oars  up  to  the  bank. 

Rosemary  instantly  comprehended  the  emo 
tions  of  an  animal  in  a  trap.  She  scarcely 
dared  to  breathe,  much  less  move.  Unwilling 
to  listen,  she  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears  and 
turned  her  head  away,  but  presently  the 
position  became  so  strained  and  uncomfortable 
that  she  had  to  give  it  up.  Their  voices  were 
plainly  audible. 


238 


/Raster  of  tbe 


n  picnic  "I  thought  I  heard  a  rustle  behind  that 
thicket,"  said  Edith.  She  was  lovely  in  her 
gown  of  pale  green  linen,  and  carried  a  white 
linen  parasol  instead  of  wearing  a  hat. 

"It 's  a  bird,  or  a  squirrel,"  he  assured  her. 
"Nobody  ever  comes  here." 

"Are  we  nobody?" 

"  Indeed  not — we  're  everybody.  The  world 
was  made  just  for  us  two." 

"  I  wish  I  could  believe  you,"  Edith  returned, 
sadly.  Then  she  added,  with  swift  irrelevance: 
"Why  do  people  always  take  hard-boiled  eggs 
to  picnics?" 

"To  mitigate  the  pickles,"  he  responded. 
"There  always  are  pickles — see?  I  knew 
Mother  would  put  some  in." 

"Wine,  too,"  commented  Edith,  peering 
into  the  basket.  "Why,  it 's  almost  a  party!" 

Alden's  face  took  on  a  grave,  sweet  boyish 
ness.  "I  did  that  myself,"  he  said.  "Mother 
did  n't  know.  Wait  until  I  tell  you.  The 
day  I  was  born,  my  father  set  aside  all  the 
wine  that  was  that  day  ready  for  bottling. 
There  was  n'  t  much  of  it.  All  these  years, 
it 's  been  untouched  on  one  particular  shelf 
in  the  storeroom,  waiting,  in  dust  and  cobwebs. 
At  sunset  he  went  to  Mother,  and  told  her 
what  he  had  done.  'It 's  for  the  boy/  he  said. 
'It 's  to  be  opened  the  day  he  finds  the  woman 
he  loves  as  I  love  you.'" 

"  And — "  Edith's  voice  was  almost  a  whisper. 


©ne  Xittle  "fcour 


"The  time  has  come.  I  may  have  found 
her  only  to  lose  her  again,  but  she  's  mine — 
for  to-day." 

He  filled  two  small  glasses,  and,  solemnly, 
they  drank.  The  light  mood  vanished  as 
surely  as  though  they  had  been  in  a  church, 
at  some  unwonted  communion.  Behind  the 
leafy  screen,  Rosemary  trembled  and  shook. 
She  felt  herself  sharply  divided  into  a  dual 
personality.  One  of  her  was  serene  and  calm, 
able  to  survey  the  situation  unemotionally, 
as  though  it  were  something  that  did  not 
concern  her  at  all.  The  other  was  a  deeply 
passionate,  loving  woman,  who  had  just  seen 
her  life's  joy  taken  from  her  for  ever. 

Alden,  leaning  back  against  the  rock  near 
which  they  sat,  was  looking  at  Edith  as  a  man 
looks  at  but  one  woman  in  all  his  life.  To 
Rosemary,  trembling  and  cold,  it  someway 
brought  a  memory  of  her  father's  face,  in  the 
faded  picture.  At  the  thought,  she  clenched  her 
hands  tightly  and  compressed  her  lips.  So 
much  she  had,  made  hers  eternally  by  a  grave. 
No  one  could  take  from  her  the  thrilling  sense 
of  kinship  with  those  who  had  given  her  life. 

Edith  looked  out  upon  the  river.  Her  face 
was  wistful  and  as  appealing  as  a  child's. 
"Found,"  she  repeated,  "though  only  to  lose 
again." 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  answered,  hopefully. 
"Wait  and  see." 


240 


dDaster  ot  tbe 


"Life  is  made  of  waiting,"  she  returned, 
Bgatn  sadly — "woman's  life  always  is."  Then  with 
a  characteristically  quick  change  of  mood,  she 
added,  laughingly:  "  I  know  a  woman  who  says 
that  all  her  life,  before  she  was  married,  she 
was  waiting  for  her  husband,  and  that  since 
her  marriage,  she  has  noticed  no  difference." 

Alden  smiled  at  the  swift  anti-climax,  then 
his  face  grew  grave  again.  He  packed  the 
few  dishes  in  the  basket,  rinsed  the  wine 
glasses  in  the  river,  brought  them  back,  and 
gave  one  to  Edith. 

"We  '11  break  the  bottle,"  he  said,  "and  the 
glasses,  too.  They  shall  never  be  used  again." 

The  shattered  crystal  fell,  tinkling  as  it  went. 
The  wine  made  a  deep,  purple  stain  upon  the 
stone.  He  opened  his  arms. 

"No,"  whispered  Edith.  "It  only  makes 
it  harder,  when " 

"Beloved,  have  you  found  so  much  sweet 
ness  in  the  world  that  you  can  afford  to  pass  it 
by?"  She  did  not  answer,  so  he  said,  plead 
ingly:  "Don't  you  want  to  come?" 

She  turned  toward  him,  her  face  suddenly 
illumined.  "  I  do,  with  all  my  soul  I  do." 

"Then  come.  For  one  little  hour — for  one 
dear  hour — ah,  dearest,  come!" 

Rosemary  averted  her  face,  unable  to  bear 
it.  When  she  turned  her  miseraole  eyes  to 
ward  them  again,  allured  by  some  strange 
fascination  she  was  powerless  to  analyse, 


Xittle  1bour  241 


Edith  was  in  his  arms,  her  mouth  crushed  to 

his.  Hlone 

"Dear,  dearest,  sweetheart,  beloved!"  the 
man  murmured.  "  I  love  you  so!  " 

There  was  a  pause,  then  he  spoke  again. 
"Do  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  breathed.  "A  thousand  times, 
yes!" 

"Say  it,"  he  pleaded.  "Just  those  three 
words." 

"  I  love  you,"  she  answered,  "for  everything 
you  have  been  and  everything  you  are  and 
everything  you  are  going  to  be,  for  always. 
I  love  you  with  a  love  that  is  yours  alone. 
It  never  belonged  to  anybody  else  for  the 
merest  fraction  of  a  second,  and  never  can. 
It  was  born  for  you,  lives  for  you,  and  will  die 
when  you  need  it  no  more." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "but  I  need  it  always.  I  've 
wanted  you  all  my  life." 

"And  will,"  she  sighed,  trying  to  release 
herself. 

"Edith!  Don't!  I  can't  bear  it!  Take  the 
golden  hour  as  the  glittering  sands  of  eternity 
sweep  past  us.  So  much  is  yours  and  mine, 
out  of  all  that  is  past  and  to  come." 

"As  you  wish,"  she  responded.  Then,  after 
another  pause,  she  said:  "Don't  you  want  to 
read  to  me?" 

Rosemary,  dumb  and  hopeless,  saw  them 
sit  down,  close  together,  and  lean  against  the 


242 


/Caster  ot  tbe 


TTbe 

1Re&  DBooh 
Bgaln 


rock,  where  the  sunlight  made  an  aureole  of 
Edith's  hair.  He  slipped  his  arm  around  her, 
and  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  with 
a  look  of  heavenly  peace  upon  her  pale  face. 
Never  had  the  contrast  between  them  been 
more  painful  than  now,  for  Edith,  with 
love  in  her  eyes,  was  exquisite  beyond  all 
words. 

Aldentook  a  small  red  book  out  of  his  pocket. 
With  a  pang,  Rosemary  recognised  it.  Was 
nothing  to  be  left  sacred  to  her?  She  longed 
to  break  from  her  hiding-place,  face  them  both 
with  stern  accusing  eyes,  snatch  the  book 
which  meant  so  much  to  her — ask  for  this 
much,  at  least,  to  keep.  Yet  she  kept  still, 
and  listened  helplessly,  with  the  blood  beating 
in  her  ears. 

In  his  deep,  musical  voice,  Alden  read  once 
more:  Her  Gifts.  "That,"  he  said,  softly,  "was 
the  night  I  knew." 

"Yes,"  Edith  answered.  "The  night  I 
found  the  book  and  brought  it  home." 

Rosemary  well  remembered  when  Edith  had 
found  the  book.  Her  strange  sense  of  a  dual 
self  persisted,  yet,  none  the  less,  her  heart 
beat  hard  with  pain. 

He  went  on,  choosing  a  line  here  and  there 
as  he  turned  the  marked  pages,  but  avoiding 
entirely  some  of  the  most  beautiful  sonnets 
because  of  their  hopelessness.  At  last,  hold 
ing  her  closer,  he  began: 


©tie  Xittle  t>our 


243 


"On  this  sweet  bank  your  head  thrice  sweet  and  dear 

I  lay,  and  spread  your  hair  on  either  side, 
And  see  the  new-born  woodflowers  bashful -eyed 
Look  through  the  golden  tresses  here  and  there. 

On  these  debatable  borders  of  the  year 
Spring's  foot  half  falters;  scarce  she  yet  may  know 

The  leafless  blackthorn-blossom  from  the  snow; 
And  through  her  bowers  the  wind's  way  still  is  clear." 

"Oh!"  breathed  Rosemary,  with  her  hands 
tightly  clenched.     "Dear  God,  have  pity!" 
Heedlessly,  Alden  went  on: 

"But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades  to-day; 
So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my  kiss 
Creep,  as  the  Spring  now  thrills  through  every  spray, 
Up  your  warm  throat  to  your  warm  lips;  for  this " 

He  dropped  the  book,  lifted  Edith's  chin 
and  kissed  her  throat,  then  her  mouth.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  face.  "Dear  and 
lonely  and  hungry-hearted,"  she  said;  "how 
long  you  wanted  me!" 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  "but  I  've  found  you 
now!" 

How  long  they  sat  there,  Rosemary  never 
knew,  for  her  senses  were  dulled.  She  did  not 
hear  their  preparations  for  departure,  but  saw 
the  boat  swinging  out  into  the  current,  with 
the  sunset  making  golden  glory  of  the  river 
and  of  Edith's  hair.  When  the  sound  of  the 
oars  ceased,  she  rose,  numb  and  cold,  and  came 
out  into  the  open  space.  She  steadied  herself 


Suiting  tbc 
Bction  to 

tbe  TOoc& 


244 


/Caster  ot  tbe  HMnegarfc 


Hnotbcr 


for  a  moment  upon  the  rock  against  which  they 
had  leaned. 

"Service,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  sacrifice. 
Giving,  and  not  receiving.  Asking — not 
answer."  Yet  she  saw  that,  even  now,  this 
could  be  neither  sacrifice  nor  denial,  because 
it  was  something  she  had  never  had. 

She  laughed,  a  trifle  bitterly,  and  went  on 
home,  another  thought  keeping  time  with  her 
footsteps.  "The  appointed  thing  comes  at 
the  appointed  time  in  the  appointed  way. 
There  is  no  terror  save  my  own  fear." 


XVII 

ZTbe  last 


r  J^HE  shrill  voices  in  the  sitting-room  rose 
1  higher  and  higher.  Since  the  day 
Grandmother  had  read  the  article  upon 
"Woman's  Birthright"  to  Matilda,  the  subject 
of  Mrs.  Lee's  hair  had,  as  it  were,  been  drowned 
in  cucumber  milk.  When  Rosemary  came  in 
from  the  kitchen,  they  appealed  to  her  by 
common  consent. 

"Rosemary,  have  you  ever  heard  of  any 
body  taking  a  stool  and  a  pail  and  goin'  out 
to  milk  the  cucumbers  before  breakfast?" 
This  from  Aunt  Matilda. 

"Rosemary,  ain't  you  seen  the  juice  of  wild 
cucumbers  when  they  spit  their  seeds  out  and 
ain't  it  just  like  milk,  only  some  thicker?" 
This  from  Grandmother. 

"I  don't  know,"  Rosemary  answered,  me 
chanically.  The  queer  sense  of  a  double  self 
persisted.  One  of  her  was  calm  and  content, 
the  other  was  rebellious  —  and  hurt. 

"Humph!"  snorted  Grandmother. 

"Humph!"  echoed  Aunt  Matilda. 


246 


/iDaster  of  tbe 


(Being  for 
tbe  paper 


"It's  Thursday,"  Grandmother  reminded 
her,  "  and  I  heard  the  mail  train  come  in  some 
time  ago.  You  'd  better  leave  the  sweepin' 
an'  go  and  get  my  paper." 

"Yes,  do,"  Aunt  Matilda  chimed  in,  with  a 
sneer.  "I  can't  hardly  wait  for  this  week's 
paper,  more  'n  the  other  sufiferin'  five  million 
can.  Maybe  there  '11  be  a  pattern  for  a  cu 
cumber  milkin'  stool  in  this  week's  paper; 
somethin'  made  out  of  a  soap-box,  with 
cucumber  leaves  and  blossoms  painted  on  it 
with  some  green  and  yellow  house  paint  that 
happens  to  be  left  over.  And,"  she  continued, 
"they'd  ought  to  be  a  pail  too,  but  I  reckon 
a  tin  can  '11  do,  for  the  cucumbers  I  've  seen  so 
far  don't  look  as  if  they  'd  be  likely  to  give 
much  milk.  We  can  paint  the  can  green  and 
paste  a  picture  of  a  cucumber  on  the  outside 
from  the  seed  catalogue.  Of  course  I  ain't 
got  any  freckles,  but  there  's  nothin'  like  havin' 
plenty  of  cucumber  milk  in  the  house,  with 
hot  weather  comin'  on." 

Grandmother  surveyed  Matilda  with  a  pen 
etrating,  icy  stare.  "You've  got  freckles  on 
your  mind,"  she  said.  "Rosemary,  will  you  go 
to  the  post-office  and  not  keep  me  waiting?" 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  brown  gingham 
dress,  and  hesitated. 

"  You  're  clean  enough, "  Grandmother  ob 
served,  tartly.  "Anybody  'd  think  you  had  a 
beau  waitin'  for  you  somewheres. " 


TTbe  Xast  tlrpst 


She  flushed  to  her  temples,  but  did  not 
speak.  Her  face  was  still  red  when  she  went 
out,  wearing  a  brown  straw  hat  three  Summers 
old. 

"The  paper  says,"  Grandmother  continued, 
"that  a  blush  is  becomin'  to  some  women,  but 
Rosemary  ain't  one  that  looks  well  with  a 
red  face.  Do  you  suppose  she  has  got  a 
beau!?" 

"Can't  prove  it  by  me,"  Matilda  sighed, 
looking  pensively  out  of  the  window.  "That 
Marsh  boy  come  to  see  her  once,  though." 

"  He  did  n't  come  again,  I  notice,  no  more  'n 
the  minister  did." 

"No,"  Matilda  rejoined,  pointedly,  with  a 
searching  glance  at  Grandmother,  "and  I 
reckon  it  was  for  the  same  reason.  When 
young  folks  comes  to  see  young  folks,  they 
don't  want  old  folks  settin'  in  the  room  with 
'em  all  the  time,  talkin'  about  things  they 
ain't  interested  in." 

"Young  folks!"  snorted  Grandmother. 
"You  was  thirty!" 

"That  ought  to  be  old  enough  to  set  alone 
with  a  man  for  a  spell,  especially  if  he  's  a 
minister." 

"  I  suppose  you  think," the  old  lady  returned, 
swiftly  gathering  her  ammunition  for  a  final 
shot,  ''that  the  minister  was  minded  to 
marry  you.  I  've  told  you  more  'n  once 
that  you  're  better  off  the  way  you  are. 


248  flDaster  of  tbe  Iflfne^arfc 

face  to  Marriage  ain't  much.  I  've  been  through  it 
and  I  know." 

With  that,  she  sailed  triumphantly  out  of 
the  room,  closing  the  door  with  a  bang  which 
had  in  it  the  sound  of  finality.  Poor  Miss 
Matilda  gazed  dreamily  out  of  the  window, 
treasuring  the  faint,  fragrant  memory  of  her 
lost  romance.  "  If  Rosemary  has  got  a  beau, " 
she  said  to  herself,  "  I  hope  she  won't  let  Ma 
scare  him  away  from  her." 

At  the  post-office,  Rosemary  met  Alden, 
face  to  face.  She  blushed  and  stammered 
when  he  spoke  to  her,  answered  his  kindly 
questions  in  monosyllables,  and,  snatching 
Tbe  Household  Guardian  from  the  outstretched 
hand  of  the  postmaster,  hurried  away. 

Presently  he  overtook  her.  "Please,  Rose 
mary,"  he  said,  "give  me  just  a  minute.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you.  I  have  n't  seen  you  for 
along  time." 

"Yes?"  She  stopped,  but  could  not  raise 
her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"I  can't  talk  to  you  here.  Come  on  up  the 
hill." 

"When?"  The  girl's  lips  scarcely  moved 
as  she  asked  the  question. 

"Now.     Please  come." 

"  I  '11 — I  '11  have  to  go  home  first,  with 
this,"  she  replied,  indicating  the  paper.  "Then 
I  '11  come." 

"All  right.     I  '11  go  on  ahead  and  wait  for 


Xast 


you.  Shall  I  tie  the  red  ribbon  to  the  tree?" 
He  spoke  thoughtlessly,  meaning  only  to  be 
pleasant,  but  the  girl's  eyes  filled.  She  shook 
her  head  decisively  and  neither  of  them  spoke 
until  they  reached  the  corner  where  she  must 
turn. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said. 

"Auf  wiedersehen, "  he  replied,  lifting  his 
hat.  "Don't  be  long." 

Always,  before,  it  had  been  Rosemary  who 
waited  for  him.  Now  he  sat  upon  the  log, 
leaning  back  against  the  tree,  listening  to 
the  chatter  of  the  squirrels  and  the  twitter 
of  little  birds  in  the  boughs  above  him.  It 
was  not  yet  noon,  and  the  sunlight  made 
little  dancing  gleams  of  silver-gilt  on  the 
ground  between  the  faint  shadows  of  the 
leaves.  He  waited  for  her  in  a  fever  of 
impatience,  for  in  his  pocket  he  had  a  letter 
for  Edith,  addressed  in  a  dashing  masculine 
hand. 

Not' so  long  ago,  in  this  same  place,  he  had 
asked  Rosemary  to  marry  him.  Now  he  must 
ask  her  to  release  him,  to  set  him  free  from 
the  bondage  he  had  persisted  in  making  for 
himself.  He  made  a  wry  face  at  the  thought, 
unspeakably  dreading  the  coming  interview 
and,  in  his  heart,  despising  himself. 

Rosemary  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long. 
When  she  came,  she  was  flushed  and  breathless 
from  the  long  climb — and  something  more. 


250 


/roaster  of  tbe 


Ube  t>our 
of 

IRecfconfng 


She  sank  down  upon  the  seat  he  indicated— 
her  old  place. 

"It's  been  a  long  time  since  we  were  here 
last,"  Alden  observed,  awkwardly. 

"Has  it?"  The  grey  eyes  glanced  at  him 
keenly  for  a  moment,  then  swiftly  turned 
away. 

"I've — I've  wanted  to  see  you, "  Alden 
lied. 

"I've  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  flashed 
back,  telling  the  literal  truth. 

Alden  sighed,  for  there  was  tremulous  passion 
in  her  tone — almost  resentment.  He  had 
treated  her  badly,  considering  that  she  was 
his  promised  wife.  She  had  been  shamefully 
neglected,  and  she  knew  it,  and  the  hour  of 
reckoning  had  come. 

For  the  moment  he  caught  at  the  straw  the 
situation  seemed  to  offer  him.  If  they  should 
quarrel — if  he  could  make  her  say  harsh  things, 
it  might  be  easier.  Instantly  his  better  self 
revolted.  "Coward!"  he  thought.  "Cad!" 

"I  've  wanted  to  see  you,"  Rosemary  was 
saying,  with  forced  calmness,  "to  tell  you 
something.  I  can't  marry  you,  ever!" 

"Why,  Rosemary!"  he  returned,  surprised 
beyond  measure.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

The  girl  rose  and  faced  him.  He  rose,  too, 
awkwardly  stretching  out  his  hand  for  hers. 
She  swerved  aside,  and  clasped  her  hands 
behind  her  back. 


Xast 


"I  mean  what  I  said;  it's  plain  enough, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  putting  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  "it's  perfectly  plain.  If  I've 
done  anything  to  hurt  or  offend  you  in  any 
way,  I — I  'm  sorry."  So  much  was  true. 
He  was  sorry  for  Rosemary  and  had  never 
been  more  so  than  at  that  very  moment. 
"You'll  give  me  a  reason,  won't  you?"  he 
continued. 

"Reason?"  she  repeated,  with  a  bitter 
laugh.  "Oh,  I  have  plenty  of  reasons!" 
His  heart  sank  for  a  moment,  then  went  on, 
evenly.  "It 's  all  a  mistake — it 's  never  been 
anything  but  a  mistake.  I  could  n't  leave 
Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda,  you  know. 
They  need  me,  and  I  should  n't  have  allowed 
myself  to  forget  it." 

"Yes,"  Alden  agreed,  quickly,  "I  suppose 
they  do  need  you.  I  was  selfish,  perhaps." 

Hot  words  came  to  her  lips  but  she  choked 
them  back.  For  an  instant  she  was  tempted 
to  tell  him  all  she  had  seen  and  heard  a  few 
days  before,  to  accuse  him  of  disloyalty,  and 
then  prove  it.  Her  face  betrayed  her  agitation, 
but  Alden  was  looking  out  across  the  valley,  and 
did  not  see.  In  his  pocket  the  letter  for  Edith 
lay  consciously,  as  though  it  were  alive. 

"It  isn't  that  you  don't  love  me,  is  it?" 
he  asked,  curiously.  His  masculine  vanity 
had  been  subtly  aroused. 


252  /iDaster  of  tbe 


Rosemary  looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 
She  was  white,  now,  to  the  lips.  "Yes,"  she 
lied.  "It  is  that  more  than  anything  else." 

"Why,  my  dear  girl!    I  thought— 

"So  did  I.  We  were  both  mistaken,  that 
is  all." 

"And  you  really  don't  love  me?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

Alden  laughed — a  little  mirthless,  mocking 
laugh.  It  is  astonishing,  sometimes,  how 
deeply  a  man  may  be  hurt  through  his  vanity. 
Rosemary  had  turned  away,  and  he  called 
her  back. 

"Won't  you  kiss  me  good-bye?"  he  asked, 
with  a  new  humility. 

Then  Rosemary  laughed,  too,  but  her  laugh 
was  also  mirthless.  "No,"  she  answered,  in 
a  tone  from  which  there  was  no  appeal.  "Why 
should  I?"  Before  he  realised  it,  she  was 
gone. 

He  went  back  to  the  log  and  sat  down  to 
think.  This  last  tryst  with  Rosemary  had 
been  a  surprise  in  more  ways  than  one.  He 
had  been  afraid  that  she  would  be  angry,  or 
hurt,  and  she  had  been  neither.  He  had  come 
to  ask  for  freedom  and  she  had  given  it  to 
him  without  asking,  because  she  could  not  leave 
Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda,  and  because 
she  did  not  love  him.  He  could  understand 
the  first  reason,  but  the  latter  seemed  very 
strange.  Yet  Rosemary  had  looked  him 


TTbe  Xast 


straight  in  the  face  and  he  had  never  known 
her  to  lie.  He  had  a  new  emotion  toward  her; 
not  exactly  respect,  but  something  more  than 
that. 

Then,  with  a  laugh,  he  straightened  his 
shoulders.  He  had  what  he  wanted,  though 
it  had  not  come  in  the  way  he  thought  it  would. 
If  he  had  been  obliged  to  ask  her  to  release 
him,  he  would  have  felt  worse  than  he  did  now. 
The  letter  in  his  pocket,  heavy  with  portent, 
asserted  itself  imperiously.  He  hurried  home, 
feeling  very  chivalrous. 

Edith,  cool  and  fresh  in  white  linen,  with 
one  of  the  last  of  the  red  roses  thrust  into  her 
belt,  was  rocking  on  the  veranda,  with  a  book 
in  her  lap  which  she  had  made  no  pretence 
of  reading.  Two  or  three  empty  chairs  were 
near  her,  but  Madame  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Alden  handed  her  the  letter.  "I  'm  free!" 
he  said,  exultantly. 

Edith  smiled,  then,  with  shaking  hands, 
tore  open  the  letter.  Alden  eagerly  watched 
her  as  she  turned  the  closely  written  pages, 
but  her  face  was  inscrutable.  She  read  every 
word  carefully,  until  she  reached  the  signature. 
Then  she  looked  up. 

"I'm  not,"  she  said,  briefly.  She  tossed 
the  letter  to  him,  and  went  into  the  house. 
He  heard  her  light  feet  upon  the  stairs  and 
the  rustle  of  her  skirts  as  she  ascended.  Per 
fume  persisted  in  the  place  she  had  just  left — 


254 


flDaster  of  tbe 


Hften 

tReabs  tbe 

letter 


the  rose  at  her  belt,  the  mysterious  blending 
of  many  sweet  odours,  and,  above  all,  the 
fragrance  of  Edith  herself. 

"It's  nonsense,"  he  murmured,  looking 
after  her.  All  her  quixotic  notions  of  honour 
would  eventually  yield  to  argument — of  course 
they  would.  Yet  his  heart  strangely  misgave 
him  as  he  read  the  letter. 

"My  dear  Edith,"  it  began. 

"Your  letter  has  somewhat  surprised  me, 
and  yet  I  cannot  say  I  feel  that  I  don't  deserve 
it.  Since  you  have  been  away  I  have  been 
doing  a  good  deal  of  thinking.  Of  course  you 
and  I  have  n't  hit  it  off  very  well  together, 
and,  as  I  can  see  no  point  where  you  have 
failed  me,  I  realise  that  it  must  be  my  fault 
and  that  I  have  failed  you. 

"  I  wish  you  had  talked  to  me  about  it, 
instead  of  going  away,  and  yet,  even  as  I  write 
the  words,  I  see  how  impossible  it  would  have 
been,  for  we  have  n't  been  in  the  habit  of 
talking  things  over  since  the  first  year  we  were 
married.  Gradually  the  wall  of  silence  and 
reserve  has  grown  up  between  us,  but  while  you, 
with  the  quicker  insight  of  a  woman,  have 
seen  it  growing,  I  have  n't  realised  it  until  it 
was  completed. 

"Your  offering  me  my  freedom  has  made 
me  wonder  what  my  life  would  be  without 
you.  No  one  has  ever  filled  your  place  to  me, 
or  ever  will.  I  may  have  seemed  careless, 


Xast 


thoughtless — indeed,  I  have  been  both,  and 
constantly,  but  always  in  the  background  has 
been  the  knowledge  that  you  were  there — that 
I  could  depend  upon  you. 

"It  may  seem  like  a  trite  and  commonplace 
thing  to  say,  but  upon  my  word  and  honour, 
Edith,  I  have  n't  meant  to  fail  you,  as  I  see 
I  have  in  a  thousand  ways.  I  'm  sorry,  deeply 
sorry,  but  I  know  that  the  words  will  not  mean 
much  to  you. 

"Since  I  first  saw  you,  there's  never  been 
any  woman  in  the  world  for  me  but  you,  and 
there  never  will  be,  even  though  you  should 
cast  me  off  as  I  deserve.  If  you  can  make  up 
your  mind  to  come  back  to  me  and  let  me 
try  again,  I  '11  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy 
— to  consider  you  instead  of  myself. 

"Men  are  selfish  brutes  at  the  best,  and  I 
don't  claim  to  be  any  better  than  the  average, 
but  all  I  'm  asking  for  now  is  a  chance  to  make 
myself  worthy  of  you — to  be  the  sort  of  hus 
band  a  woman  like  you  should  have. 

"Please  let  me  hear  from  you  very  soon. 
"Your  loving  husband, 

"W.  G.  L." 

Alden  read  it  again,  though  he  did  not  need 
to — he  had  understood  every  word  of  it  the 
first  time.  Then  he  folded  it,  slowly  and 
precisely,  and  put  it  into  the  torn  envelope. 
He  tapped  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  for  a 


256  /iDaster  of  tbe 


moment  with  the  edge  of  the  envelope,  then, 
mechanically,  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

A  robin,  in  a  maple  tree  beyond  him,  piped 
his  few  notes  with  unbearable  intensity.  Dis 
cordant  chirps  assailed  his  ears  from  the 
lattice  where  the  climbing  rose  put  forth  its 
few  last  blooms.  Swaying  giddily  in  a  crazy 
pattern  upon  the  white  floor  of  the  veranda, 
was  the  shadow  of  the  rose,  the  plaything  of 
every  passing  wind.  He  remembered  the 
moonlight  night  which  might  have  been  either 
yesterday  or  in  some  previous  life,  as  far  as 
his  confused  perceptions  went,  when  Edith 
had  stood  with  the  rose  in  her  hand,  and  the 
clear,  sharply-defined  shadow  of  it  had  been 
silhouetted  at  her  feet. 

All  his  senses  seemed  mercilessly  acute. 
Some  of  the  roses  were  almost  dead  and  the 
sickening  scent  of  them  mingled  with  the 
fragrance  of  those  that  had  just  bloomed. 
It  made  him  dizzy — almost  faint. 

The  maid  announced  luncheon,  but  food, 
or  the  sight  of  his  mother  were  among  the 
last  things  he  desired,  just  then.  Affecting 
not  to  hear,  he  went  out,  got  a  boat,  and  rowed 
far  up  the  river  alone. 

When  he  was  utterly  exhausted,  he  shipped 
the  oars  and  let  himself  drift  back,  pushing 
out  from  shore  now  and  then  when  the  current 
brought  him  too  near.  He  knew,  with  crushing 
certainty,  that  Edith  would  not  be  swerved 


Ube  Xast  Urvst 


from  her  chosen  path  by  argument — but  he 
could  at  least  try. 

White-faced  and  weary,  he  went  to  his  room 
when  he  reached  home,  lay  down,  and  tried 
to  sleep,  but  sleep  would  not  come.  He 
seemed  to  have  come  to  a  point  of  absolute 
bodily  suspension,  neither  to  hunger  nor  thirst 
nor  sleep  again.  It  was,  in  a  way,  like  a  clock, 
that  ticks  steadily,  though  the  hands  a"re 
definitely  fixed  at  a  certain  hour  and  will  not 
move. 

He  forced  himself  to  dress  for  dinner  and 
to  go  down  at  the  proper  time.  Madame  was 
waiting,  but  Edith  was  late.  When  she 
appeared,  she  was  in  the  white  linen  gown 
she  had  worn  all  day,  with  the  withered  rose 
in  her  belt.  It  was  the  first  evening  she  had 
not  dressed  for  dinner  and  she  at  once  apolo 
gised  to  Madame. 

"I  'm  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  it  seemed  im 
possible  to  make  the  effort  to-night.  You  '11 
forgive  me,  won't  you?" 

"Of  course,"  Madame  returned  sweetly. 

"Of  course,"  Alden  echoed.  His  voice 
sounded  distant  and  his  eyes  were  dull. 

As  dinner  bade  fair  to  be  a  silent  function, 
Madame  turned  to  Edith  with  the  first  question 
that  came  into  her  mind. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  the  after 
noon?" 

"Packing,"   replied   Edith,   with    dry   lips. 


258 


/Caster  of  tbe 


•nothing to  "Or  rather,  getting  ready  to  pack."  She  did 
not  look  at  Alden,  but  at  Madame,  with  a  wan 
little  smile  that  made  the  old  lady's  heart 
suddenly  very  tender  toward  her. 

"My  dear!    We  '11  miss  you  so." 

"I  know,"  Edith  murmured,  "and  I  shall 
miss  you — more  than  words  may  say,  but  I 
have  to  go."  She  drained  the  glass  of  water 
at  her  plate,  then  added:  "My  husband  wants 
me  to  come  back.  He  has  written  to  say  so." 

"Then,"  said  Madame,  "I  suppose  you 
will  have  to  go." 

"I  suppose  so/'  repeated  Edith,  parrot-like. 

Alden's  eyes  never  swerved  from  Edith's 
white  face.  In  their  depths  was  the  world- 
old  longing,  the  world-old  appeal,  but  never 
for  the  fraction  of  an  instant  did  Edith  trust 
herself  to  look  at  him. 

When  they  rose  from  the  table,  Edith  went 
back  to  her  room  immediately,  murmuring 
an  excuse.  Alden  watched  her  despairingly 
until  the  hem  of  her  white  gown  was  lost  at  the 
turn  of  the  stairs.  Then  he  sat  down  with  the 
paper,  but  he  could  not  read,  for  the  words 
zig-zagged  crazily  along  the  page. 

Madame  understood  and  sincerely  pitied 
them  both,  but  there  seemed  to  be  nothing 
to  say.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  with  her 
eyes  closed,  pretending  to  be  asleep,  but,  in 
reality,  watching  Alden  as  he  stared  vacantly 
at  the  paper  he  held  in  his  shaking  hands. 


Xast  Ursst  259 


At  last  he  rose  and  went  out  upon  the  poor 
veranda.  Madame  started  from  her  chair, 
then  forced  herself  to  lean  back  again,  calmly. 
She  heard  the  scraping  of  his  chair  as  he  moved 
it  along  the  veranda,  out  of  the  way  of  the 
light  that  came  through  the  open  window. 
For  a  long  time  there  was  silence. 

Longing  to  comfort  him  and  unable  to  endure 
it  longer,  Madame  went  out,  softly.  He  did 
not  hear  her  step,  for  his  head  was  bowed  upon 
his  hands.  From  a  room  above  Edith's  light 
streamed  out  afar  into  the  sweet  darkness, 
drawing  toward  it  all  the  winged  wayfarers  of 
the  night. 

Madame  slipped  her  arm  around  his  shoul 
ders,  and  bent  down  to  him.  "Dear,"  she 
said  brokenly,  "she  's  married." 

Alden  drew  a  quick,  shuddering  breath, 
and  freed  himself  roughly  from  the  tender 
clasp.  "I  know  it,  Mother,"  he  cried,  in  a 
voice  vibrant  with  pain.  "For  God's  sake, 
don't  remind  me  of  that!" 


26o 


XVIII 

Starbreafc 

swtb»«  ''THROUGH  the  long  night  Edith  lay  awake, 
1  thinking.  Her  senses  were  blindly 
merged  into  one  comprehensive  hurt.  She  was 
as  one  who  fares  forth  in  darkness,  knowing 
well  the  way  upon  which  he  must  go,  yet 
longing  vainly  for  light. 

Her  path  lay  before  her,  mercilessly  clear 
and  distinct.  A  trick  of  memory  took  her 
back  to  what  Madame  had  said,  the  day  after 
she  came:  "The  old  way  would  have  been  to 
have  waited,  done  the  best  one  could,  and 
trusted  God  to  make  it  right  in  His  good  time." 
She  remembered,  too,  her  bitter  answer:  "I've 
waited  and  I  've  done  the  best  I  could,  and 
I  've  trusted,  but  I  've  failed." 

Keenly  she  perceived  the  subtlety  of  her 
punishment.  Attempting  to  bind  the  Ever 
lasting  with  her  own  personal  limitations,  her 
own  desires,  she  had  failed  to  see  that  at  least 
half  of  a  rightful  prayer  must  deal  with  herself. 
She  had  asked  only  that  her  husband  might  love 
her;  not  that  she  might  continue  to  love  him. 


Starbreah 


Now,  with  her  heart  and  soul  wholly  in  the 
keeping  of  another  man,  the  boon  had  been 
granted  her,  in  bitterness  and  ashes  and 
desolation.  He  had  said,  in  his  letter,  that 
her  coming  away  had  made  him  think.  Through 
her  absence  he  had  seen  the  true  state  of  affairs 
between  them,  as  she  could  never  have  made 
him  see  it  if  she  had  remained  at  home.  This, 
then,  was  God's  way  of  revelation  to  him,  but 
— to  her? 

The  truth  broke  upon  her  with  the  vividness 
of  a  lightning  flash.  It  was  the  way  of  revela 
tion  to  her  also,  but  how?  She  sat  up  in  bed, 
propping  herself  back  against  the  pillows,  her 
mind  groping  eagerly  for  the  clue. 

During  the  past  six  years  she  had  endea 
voured  constantly  for  a  certain  adjustment. 
Now  it  had  come,  but  she  herself  was  out  of 
harmony.  Were  her  feet  to  be  forever  set 
upon  the  ways  of  pain?  Was  there  nothing 
at  all  in  the  world  for  her? 

Alden,  too,  was  awake  and  thinking.  She 
felt  it,  through  the  darkness,  as  definitely  as 
though  he  had  been  in  the  same  room,  with 
his  face  full  in  the  light.  He  also  was  con 
scious  of  the  utter  hopelessness  of  it  and  was 
striving  to  see  his  way  clearly. 

Until  then,  she  had  not  known  how  far  his 
argument  had  swayed  her,  nor  how  much  she 
had  depended  upon  the  thought  that  her 
husband  would  gladly  accept  the  release  she 


262 


/Caster  of  tbe  H)fne$ar& 


frr«voc« 


offered  him.  Her  principles  had  not  changed, 
but  his  possible  point  of  view  had  not  been 
considered  before. 

"'Until  death  do  us  part,'  '  said  Edith, 
to  herself.  "Not  'until  death  or  divorce  do 
us  part';  nor  yet  'until  I  see  someone  else  I 
like  better';  not  even  'until  you  see  someone 
else  you  like  better.'  And,  again,  'forsaking 
all  others  keep  thee  only  unto  me  so  long  as 
we  both  shall  live.' 

Suppose  he  had  violated  his  oath,  consented 
to  accept  freedom  at  her  hands,  and  gone  his 
way?  Would  not  the  solemn  words  she  had 
spoken  at  the  altar  still  be  binding  upon  her? 
She  saw,  now,  that  they  would  be,  and  that 
whatever  compromise  he  might  have  been 
able  to  make  with  his  own  conscience,  to  be 
legally  justified  later,  she  was  irrevocably 
bound,  until  death  should  divide  them  one 
from  the  other. 

She  smiled  sadly,  for  it  was,  indeed,  a  con 
fused  and  muddled  world.  Things  moved 
crazily,  depending  wholly  upon  blind  chance. 
One  works  steadily,  even  for  years,  bending 
all  his  energies  to  one  single  point,  and  what 
is  the  result?  Nothing!  Another  turns  the 
knob  of  a  door,  walks  into  a  strange  room,  or, 
perhaps,  writes  a  letter,  and  from  that  moment 
his  whole  life  is  changed,  for  destiny  lurks  in 
hinges  and  abides  upon  the  written  page. 

For  days,  for  months  even,  no  single  action 


Starbreaft 


may  be  significant,  and  again,  upon  another 
day,  a  thoughtless  word,  or  even  a  look,  may 
be  as  a  pebble  cast  into  deep  waters,  to  reach, 
by  means  of  ever-widening  circles,  some  distant, 
unseen  shore. 

All  this  had  come  from  a  single  sentence. 
Louise  Archer,  upon  her  death-bed,  had 
harked  back  to  her  school  days,  and,  thinking 
fondly  of  Virginia  Marsh,  had  bade  her  daugh 
ter  go  to  her  if  she  felt  the  need  of  a  mother's 
counsel  when  her  own  mother  was  past  the 
power  of  giving  it.  Years  afterward,  during 
a  day  of  despondency,  Edith  had  remembered. 
The  pebble  had  fallen  deep  and  far  and  had 
become  still  again,  but  its  final  circle  had  that 
day  touched  the  ultimate  boundary  made  by 
three  lives. 

It  had,  of  course,  made  no  difference  to 
Madame,  but  two  men  and  a  woman  had  been 
profoundly  shaken  by  it,  though  not  moved 
from  their  original  position.  They  would  all 
stay  where  they  were,  of  course — Alden  with 
his  mother,  and  Edith  with  her  husband.  Then, 
with  a  shock,  Edith  remembered  Rosemary- 
she  was  the  one  who  had  been  swept  aside  as 
though  by  a  tidal  wave. 

Poor  Rosemary!  Edith's  heart  throbbed 
with  understanding  pity  for  the  girl  who  had 
lost  all.  She  had  not  asked  how  it  had 
happened,  merely  accepting  Alden's  exultant 
announcement.  Now  she  hoped  that  it  might 


264 


/iDaster  of  tbe  IDinesaro 


a 

Sleepless 


have  been  done  delicately,  so  that  Alden  need 
not  feel  himself  a  brute,  nor  Rosemary's  pride 
be  hurt. 

Then,  through  the  night,  came  a  definite 
perception,  as  though  Alden  himself  had  given 
her  assurance.  Rosemary  had  done  it  herself, 
had  she?  Very  well — that  was  as  it  should  be. 
For  a  moment  she  dwelt  upon  the  fact  with 
satisfaction,  then,  a  little  frightened,  began  to 
speculate  upon  this  mysterious  tie  between 
herself  and  Alden. 

The  thing  was  absurd,  impossible.  She 
curled  her  short  upper  lip  scornfully  in  the 
darkness.  "You  know  it  is,"  she  said,  im 
periously,  in  her  thought,  as  though  in  answer 
to  a  mocking  question  from  somewhere: 
"Is  it?" 

She  turned  restlessly.  All  at  once  her 
position  became  tiresome,  unbearable.  She 
wanted  to  go  to  sleep,  indeed  she  must  sleep, 
for  she  had  a  long  hard  day  before  her  to 
morrow,  putting  her  things  into  her  trunks. 
Perhaps,  if  she  rose  and  walked  around  her 
room  a  little — 

One  small,  pink  foot  was  on  the  floor,  and 
the  other  almost  beside  it,  when  a  caution 
came  to  her  from  some  external  source:  "Don't. 
You'll  take  cold."  She  got  back  into  bed, 
shivering  a  little.  Yes,  the  polished  floor  was 
cold. 

Then  she  became  furious  with  Alden  and 


Starbreafe 


with  herself.  Why  could  n't  the  man  go  to 
sleep?  It  must  be  past  midnight,  now,  and 
she  would  walk,  if  she  wanted  to.  Defiantly 
and  in  a  triumph  of  self-assertion,  she  went  to 
the  open  window  and  peered  out  into  the 
stillness,  illumined  by  neither  moon  nor  stars. 
The  night  had  the  suffocating  quality  of 
hangings  of  black  velvet. 

She  lighted  a  candle,  found  her  kimono  and 
slippers,  wrapped  herself  in  a  heavy  blanket, 
and  drew  up  a  low  rocker  to  the  open  window. 
Then  she  put  out  the  light  and  settled  herself 
to  wait  until  she  was  sleepy. 

The  darkness  that  clung  around  her  so 
closely  seemed  alive,  almost  thrilling,  as  it 
did,  with  fibres  of  communication  perceptible 
only  to  a  sixth  sense.  She  marvelled  at  the 
strangeness  of  it,  but  was  no  longer  afraid. 
Her  fear  had  vanished  at  the  bidding  of  some 
one  else. 

Why  was  it?  she  asked  herself,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  and  almost  immediately  the 
answer  came:  "Why  not?" 

Why  not,  indeed?  If  a  wireless  telegraph 
instrument,  sending  its  call  into  space,  may  be 
answered  with  lightning-like  swiftness  by 
another  a  thousand  miles  away,  why  should 
not  a  thought,  without  the  clumsy  medium  of 
speech,  instantly  respond  to  another  thought 
from  a  mind  in  harmony  with  it? 

A    subtle    analogy    appeared    between    the 


266  toaster  of  tbe 


earth  and  the  body,  the  tower  from  which  the 
wireless  signalled  and  the  thought  which  called 
to  another.  When  the  physical  forces  were  at 
their  lowest  ebb,  and  the  powers  of  the  spirit 
had  risen  to  keep  the  balance  true,  why  was 
not  communication  possible  always  between 
soul  and  soul?  And,  if  one  lived  always  above 
the  fog  of  sense,  as  far  as  the  earth-bound  may, 
what  would  be  the  need  of  speech  or  touch 
between  those  who  belonged  to  one  another? 

She  and  Alden  "belonged,"  there  was  no 
doubt  of  that.  She  had,  for  him,  the  woman's 
recognition  of  her  mate,  which  is  never  to  be 
mistaken  or  denied  when  once  it  has  asserted 
itself.  "Why,"  she  thought,  "will  people 
marry  without  it  ?  "  The  other  mind  responded 
instantly:  "Because  they  don't  know." 

Marriage  presented  itself  before  her  in  two 
phases,  the  one  sordid  and  unworthy,  as  it  so 
often  is,  the  other  as  it  might  be — the  earthly 
seal  upon  a  heavenly  bond.  But,  if  the 
heavenly  relationship  existed,  was  the  other 
essential?  Her  heart  answered  "No." 

Slowly  she  began  to  see  her  way  through  the 
maze  of  things.  "Dust  to  dust,  earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes."  Then  she  laughed  outright, 
for  that  was  part  of  the  burial  service,  and 
she  had  been  thinking  of  something  else. 
And  yet — earth  to  earth  meant  only  things 
that  belonged  together;  why  not  soul  to  soul? 

Warm  tides  of  assurance  and  love  flowed 


Starbreafe 


through  her  heart,  cleansing,  strengthening, 
sweeping  barriers  aside  in  a  mighty  rush  of 
joy.  What  barriers  could  earth  interpose, 
when  two  belonged  to  each  other  in  such 
heavenly  ways  as  this?  Step  by  step  her  soul 
mounted  upward  to  the  heights,  keeping  pace 
with  another,  in  the  room  beyond. 

Out  of  sound  and  sight  and  touch,  with 
darkened  spaces  and  closed  doors  between, 
they  two  faced  the  world  together  as  surely 
as  though  they  were  hand  in  hand.  Even 
Death  could  make  no  difference — need  Life 
deny  them  more? 

Then,  with  a  blinding  flash  of  insight,  the 
revelation  came  to  her — there  was  no  denial, 
since  they  loved.  Sense,  indeed,  was  wholly 
put  aside,  but  love  has  nothing  to  do  with 
sense,  being  wholly  of  the  soul.  Shaken  with 
wonder,  she  trembled  as  she  sat  in  her  chair, 
staring  out  into  the  starless  night. 

No  denial!  All  that  Love  might  give  was 
theirs,  not  only  for  the  moment  but  for  all  the 
years  to  come.  Love — neither  hunger  nor 
thirst  nor  passion  nor  the  need  of  sleep;  neither 
a  perception  of  the  senses  nor  a  physical  de 
mand,  yet  streaming  divinely  through  any  or 
all  of  these  as  only  light  may  stream — the 
heavenly  signal  of  a  star  to  earth,  through  infi 
nite  darkness,  illimitable  space. 

By  tortuous  paths  and  devious  passages, 
she  had  come  out  upon  the  heights,  into  the 


268 


/Caster  of  tbe 


love 


clear  upper  air  of  freedom  and  of  love.  Exqui 
sitely,  through  the  love  of  the  one  had  come 
the  love  of  the  many;  the  complete  mastery 
of  self  had  been  gained  by  the  surrender  of 
self;  triumph  had  rewarded  sacrifice. 

Nothing  was  difficult  now — nothing  would 
ever  be  hard  again.  To  go  where  she  was 
wanted,  to  give  what  she  could  that  was 
needed,  steadily  to  set  self  aside,  asking  for 
nothing  but  the  opportunity  to  help,  and 
through  this  high  human  service  renewing  the 
spent  forces  of  her  soul  at  the  divine  fountains 
that  do  not  fail — this,  indeed,  was  Love! 

Oh,  to  make  the  others  understand  as  she 
understood  now — and  as  Alden  understood! 
In  her  thought  they  two  were  as  one.  Grop 
ing  through  the  same  darkness,  he  had  emerged, 
with  her,  into  the  same  light;  she  felt  it  through 
the  living,  throbbing  night  more  certainly 
than  if  they  stood  face  to  face  in  the  blinding 
glare  of  the  sun. 

The  heart-breaking  tragedy  of  Woman 
revealed  itself  wholly  to  her  for  the  first  time. 
Less  materialistic  and  more  finely-grained 
than  Man,  she  aspires  toward  things  that  are 
often  out  of  his  reach.  Failing  in  her  aspiration, 
confused  by  the  effort  to  distinguish  the  false 
from  the  true,  she  blindly  clutches  at  the 
counterfeit  and  so  loses  the  genuine  forever. 

Longing,  from  the  day  of  her  birth  for  Love, 
she  spends  herself  prodigally  in  the  endless 


Starbreafe 


269 


effort  to  find  it,  little  guessing,  sometimes,  that 
it  is  not  the  most  obvious  thing  Man  has  to 
offer.  With  colour  and  scent  and  silken  sheen, 
she  makes  a  lure  of  her  body;  with  cunning 
artifice  she  makes  temptation  of  her  hands 
and  face  and  weaves  it  with  her  hair.  She 
flatters,  pleads,  cajoles;  denies  only  that  she 
may  yield,  sets  free  in  order  to  summon  back, 
and  calls,  so  that  when  he  has  answered  she 
may  preserve  a  mystifying  silence. 

She  affects  a  thousand  arts  that  in  her  heart 
she  despises,  pretends  to  housewifery  that  she 
hates,  forces  herself  to  play  tunes  though  she 
has  no  gift  for  music,  and  chatters  glibly  of 
independence  when  she  has  none  at  all. 

In  making  herself  "all  things  to  all  men," she 
loses  her  own  individuality,  and  becomes  no 
more  than  a  harp  which  any  passing  hand  may 
strike  to  quick  response.  To  one  man  she  is 
a  sage,  to  another  an  incarnate  temptation,  to 
another  a  sensible,  business-like  person,  to 
another  a  frothy  bit  of  frivolity.  To  one  man 
she  is  the  guardian  of  his  ideals,  as  Elaine  in 
her  high  tower  kept  Launcelot's  shield  bright 
for  him,  to  another  she  is  what  he  very  vaguely 
terms  "a  good  fellow,"  with  a  discriminating 
taste  in  cigarettes  and  champagne. 

Let  Man  ask  what  he  will  and  Woman  will 
give  it,  praying  only  that  somewhere  she  will 
come  upon  Love.  She  adapts  herself  to  him 
as  water  adapts  itself  to  the  shape  of  the  vessel 


Der 

estimate 
Of  TOomen 


270 


flDaster  of  tbc 


Ucr 

Estimate 
of  Women 


in  which  it  is  placed.  She  dare  not  assert 
herself  or  be  herself,  lest,  in  some  way,  she 
should  lose  her  tentative  grasp  upon  the 
counterfeit  which  largely  takes  the  place  of 
love.  If  he  prefers  it,  she  will  expatiate  upon 
her  fondness  for  vaudeville  and  musical  comedy 
until  she  herself  begins  to  believe  that  she 
likes  it.  With  tears  in  her  eyes  and  her  throat 
raw,  she  will  choke  upon  the  assertion  that 
she  likes  the  smell  of  smoke;  she  will  assume 
passion  when  his  slightest  touch  makes  her 
shudder  and  turn  cold. 

And,  most  pitiful  of  all,  when  blinded  by 
her  own  senses,  she  will  surrender  the  last 
citadel  of  her  womanhood  to  him  who  comes 
a-wooing,  undismayed  by  the  weeping  women 
around  her  whose  sacred  altars  have  been 
profaned  and  left  bare.  They  may  have  told 
her  that  if  it  is  love,  the  man  will  protect  her 
even  against  himself,  but  why  should  she 
take  account  of  the  experience  of  others? 
Has  not  he  himself  just  told  her  that  she  is 
different  from  all  other  women?  Hugging 
this  sophistry  to  her  breast,  and  still  searching 
for  love,  she  believes  him  until  the  day  of 
realisation  dawns  upon  her — old  and  broken 
and  bitter-hearted,  with  scarcely  a  friend  left 
in  the  world,  and  not  even  the  compensating 
coin  thriftily  demanded  by  her  sister  of  the 
streets. 

Under  her  countless  masques  and  behind 


Starbreafc 


her  multitudinous  phases,lurks  the  old  hunger, 
the  old  appeal.  Man,  too,  though  more  rarely, 
guessing  that  the  imperishable  beauty  of  the 
soul  is  above  the  fog  of  sense  and  not  in  it, 
searches  hopefully  at  first,  then  despairingly, 
and  finally  offers  the  counterfeit  to  the  living 
Lie  who  is  waiting  for  it  with  eager,  out 
stretched  hands. 

Stirred  to  the  depths  by  the  pity  of  it, 
Edith  brushed  away  a  tear  or  two.  She  was 
not  at  all  sleepy,  but  drew  the  blanket  closer 
around  her,  for  the  night  grew  chill  as  the 
earth  swept  farther  and  farther  away  from  the 
sun.  The  clouds  had  begun  to  drift  away, 
and  faintly,  through  the  shadow,  glimmered  one 
pale  star.  Gradually,  others  came  out,  then 
a  white  and  ghostly  moon,  with  a  veil  of  cloud 
about  it,  grey,  yet  iridescent,  like  mother- 
of-pearl. 

Blown  far  across  the  seas  of  space  by  a 
swiftly  rising  wind,  the  clouds  vanished,  and 
all  the  starry  hosts  of  heaven  marched  forth, 
challenging  the  earth  with  javelins  of  light. 

"Starbreak, "  murmured  Edith,  "up  there 
and  in  my  soul." 

The  blue  rays  of  the  love-star  burned  low 
upon  the  grey  horizon,  that  star  towards 
which  the  eyes  of  women  yearn  and  which 
women's  feet  are  fain  to  follow,  though,  like 
a  will-o'-the-wisp,  it  leads  them  through 


272 


/IDaster  of  tbe  Dfnegaito 


Jfellowsbfp 

witb  tbe 

TOorl£> 


strange  and  difficult  places,  and  into  the 
quicksands. 

The  body  grows  slowly,  but  the  soul  pro 
gresses  by  leaps  and  bounds.  Through  a  single 
hurt  or  a  single  joy,  the  soul  of  a  child  may 
reach  man's  estate,  never  to  go  backward, 
but  always  on.  And  so,  through  a  great  love 
and  her  own  complete  comprehension  of  its 
meaning,  Edith  had  grown  in  a  night  out  of 
herself,  into  a  beautiful  fellowship  with  the 
whole  world. 

Strangely  uplifted  and  forever  at  peace, 
she  rose  from  her  chair.  The  blanket  slipped 
away  from  her,  and  her  loosened  hair  flowed 
back  over  her  shoulders,  catching  gleams  of 
starlight  as  it 'fell.  She  stretched  out  her  arms 
in  yearning  toward  Alden,  her  husband,  Ma 
dame — indeed,  all  the  world,  having  come  out 
of  self  into  service;  through  the  love  of  one 
to  the  love  of  all. 

Then,  through  the  living  darkness,  came  the 
one  clear  call:  "Mine?" 

Unmistakably  the  answer  surged  back:  "  In 
all  the  ways  of  Heaven  and  for  always,  I  am 
thine." 


273 


XIX 

If  Hove  TOcre  Ell 

THE  last  of  the  packing  was  done,  and  four 
trunks  stood  in  the  lower  hall,  waiting 
for  the  expressman.  Alden  had  not  seen  Edith 
that  day,  though  he  had  haunted  the  house 
since  breakfast,  waiting  and  hoping  for  even 
a  single  word. 

She  had  been  too  busy  to  come  down  to 
luncheon,  and  had  eaten  only  a  little  from  the 
tray  Madame  sent  to  her  room.  She  was  to 
take  the  early  train  in  the  morning. 

The  afternoon  shadows  had  begun  to 
lengthen  when  she  came  down,  almost  as  white 
as  her  fresh  linen  gown,  but  diffusing  about  her 
some  radiance  from  within  that  seemed  not 
wholly  of  earth.  He  met  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"Edith!  I've  been  longing  for  you  all 
day!" 

"And  I  for  you,"  she  returned,  avoiding 
his  eyes. 

"  Listen,  dear.  Give  me  the  rest  of  it,  won't 
you?" 


TKBben  tbc 
Sbatows 
lengthen 


274 


/IDaster  of  tbe  Dineyarfc 


for  tbe 
TLatt  Uime 


"The  rest  of  what?" 

"The  little  time  you  have  left  with  us— 
this  afternoon  and  to-night." 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  looked 
him  full  in  the  face,  her  eyes  mutely  question 
ing  his. 

"I  won't,"  he  said.     "I  promise  you  that." 

"Then  I  '11  come." 

"Out  on  the  river?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  for  the  last  time,  Edith,"  he  said, 
sadly;  "the  very  last  time." 

"I  know,"  she  returned.  Her  lips  quivered 
a  little,  but  her  eyes  did  not  falter.  Clear 
and  steadfast  they  looked  far  beyond  him 
into  the  future  where  he  had  no  part.  The 
golden  lights  in  them  seemed  signal  fires  now, 
summoning  him  mysteriously  onward  to  some 
high  service,  not  alien,  even  though  apart 
from  her. 

They  said  no  more  until  they  were  in  the 
boat,  swinging  out  upon  the  sunlit  river.  Then 
Edith  glanced  at  him,  half  shyly. 

"Was  n't  last  night  wonderful?" 

"Wasn't  it!"  he  echoed.  "I  never  under 
stood  before." 

"Nor  I." 

She  trailed  a  white  hand  in  the  water  as  they 
sped  up  stream.  The  light  touched  her  hair 
lovingly,  bringing  gleams  of  gold  and  amber 
from  the  depths. 


flt  Xox>e  Mere  Hil 


"Dear,"  he  said,  "did  you  think  that,  after 
last  night,  I  could  urge  you  to  violate  your 
solemn  oath  or  even  to  break  your  word?" 

"I  hoped  not,  but  I  didn't  know." 

"I  see  it  all  clearly  now.  If  more  was 
meant  for  us  to  have,  more  would  be  right  for 
us  to  take.  Back  in  the  beginning  this  was 
meant  for  you  and  me — just  this,  and  nothing 
more." 

"How  could  there  be  more?  Isn't  love 
enough?" 

"Surely,  but  the  separation  hurts.  Never 
even  to  see  your  face  or  touch  your  hand 
again!" 

"  I  know, "  she  said,  softly.  "  I  '11  want  you, 
too.'' 

A  thousand  things  struggled  for  utterance, 
but,  true  to  his  word,  he  remained  silent. 
His  whole  nature  was  merged  into  an  imperi 
ous  demand  for  her,  the  cry  of  the  man's  sou! 
for  the  woman  who  belonged  to  him  by  divine 
right. 

"If  love  were  all,"  she  breathed,  as  though 
in  answer  to  it,  "  I  'd  come." 

"  If  love  were  all,"  he  repeated.  " I  wonder 
why  it  is  n't?  What  is  there  on  earth  aside 
from  this?  What  more  can  heaven  be  than 
love — without  the  fear  of  parting?" 

"No  more,"  she  replied.  "We've  lost 
each  other  in  this  life,  but  there  's  another 
life  to  come." 


276 


jflDaster  ot  tbe 


tUbtrling 
Btomi 


"'Helen's  lips  are  drifting  dust,"  he 
quoted. 

"Perhaps  not.  That  which  once  was  Helen 
may  be  alive  to-day  in  a  thousand  different 
forms.  A  violet  upon  a  mossy  bank,  a  bough 
of  apple  blossoms  mirrored  in  a  pool,  the 
blood  upon  some  rust-stained  sword,  a  woman 
waiting,  somewhere,  for  a  lover  who  does  not 
come." 

"And  her  soul?" 

"Drawn  back  into  the  Universal  soul,  to 
be  born  anew,  in  part  or  all." 

"What  a  pagan  you  are!" 

"Yes,"  she  responded,  smiling  a  little,  "I 
am  pagan  and  heathen  and  Christian  martyr 
and  much  else.  I  am  everything  that  I  can 
understand  and  nothing  that  I  cannot.  Don't 
you  see?" 

"  Yes,  I  see,  but  what  are  we  after  all?  Only 
two  whirling  atoms,  blown  on  winds  of  Fate. 
What  difference  does  it  make  whether  we  cling 
together,  or  are  hopelessly  sundered,  as  far 
apart  as  the  poles?" 

"The  same  difference  that  it  makes  to  a 
human  body  whether  its  atoms  behave  or 
not.  You  don't  want  to  upset  the  Universe, 
do  you?" 

He  laughed,  a  trifle  bitterly.  "  I  don't 
flatter  myself  that  I  could." 

"Not  you  alone,  nor  I,  nor  even  both  to 
gether,  but  we  must  n't  set  a  bad  example  to 


ft*  Xox>e  Mere  BU 


other  atoms.  As  long  as  there  's  a  preponder 
ance  of  right  in  the  world,  things  are  clear,  but, 
shift  the  balance,  and  then— 

"What  is  right?"  he  demanded,  roughly. 
"Always  to  do  the  thing  you  don't  want  to 
do?" 

"That  depends,"  she  returned,  shrugging 
her  shoulders.  "It  is  to  do  what  you  think 
is  right,  and  trust  that  it  may  be  so." 

Alden  stopped  rowing.  He  was  interested 
in  these  vague  abstractions.  "And,"  he  said, 
"if  a  woman  thinks  it  is  her  duty  to  murder 
her  husband,  and  does  it,  is  she  doing 
right?" 

"Possibly.  I  've  seen  lots  of  husbands  who 
would  make  the  world  better  by  leaving  it, 
even  so — well,  abruptly,  as  you  indicate. 
And  the  lady  you  speak  of,  who,  as  it  were, 
assists,  may  merely  have  drawn  a  generous 
part  of  Lucretia  Borgia  for  her  soul-substance, 
and  this  portion  chanced  to  assert  itself  while 
her  husband  was  in  the  house  and  out  of 
temper." 

"Don't  be  flippant,  darling.  This  is  our 
last  day  together.  Let 's  not  play  a  waltz 
at  an  open  grave." 

The  long  light  lay  upon  the  tranquil  waters, 
and,  as  a  mirror  might,  the  river  gave  it  back 
a  hundred-fold,  sending  stray  gleams  into 
the  rushes  at  the  bend  in  the  stream,  long 
arrows  of  impalpable  silver  into  the  far 


278 


flDaster  of  tbc  IDinegarfc 


H 

"(Rainbow 


shadows  upon  the  shore,  and  a  transfiguring 
radiance  to  Edith's  face. 

Where  the  marsh  swerved  aside  to  wait 
until  the  river  passed,  the  sunlight  took  a  tall, 
purple-plumed  iris,  the  reflection  of  the  tur 
quoise  sky  in  a  shallow  pool,  a  bit  of  iridescence 
from  a  dragon-fly's  wing,  the  shimmering  green 
of  blown  grasses  and  a  gleam  of  rising  mist 
to  make  a  fairy-like  rainbow  that,  upon  the 
instant,  disappeared. 

"Oh!"  said  Edith.     "Did  you  see?" 

"See  what,  dearest?" 

"The  rainbow — just  for  a  moment,  over  the 
marsh?" 

"No,  I  did  n't.  Do  you  expect  me  to  hunt 
for  rainbows  while  I  may  look  into  your 
face?" 

The  faint  colour  came  to  her  cheeks,  then 
receded.  "Better  go  on,"  she  suggested, 
"if  we're  to  get  where  we're  going  before 
dark." 

The  oars  murmured  in  the  water,  then  rain 
dripped  from  the  shining  blades.  The  strong 
muscles  of  his  body  moved  in  perfect  unison 
as  the  boat  swept  out  into  the  sunset  glow. 
Deeper  and  more  exquisite  with  every  passing 
moment,  the  light  lay  lovingly  upon  the 
stream,  bearing  fairy  freight  of  colour  and 
gold  to  the  living  waters  that  sang  and  crooned 
and  dreamed  from  hills  to  sea. 

"It  doesn't  seem,"  she  said,  "as  though  it 


flf  OLove  Were  HU 


were  the  last  time.  With  earth  so  beautiful, 
how  can  people  be  miserable?" 

"Very  easily,"  he  responded.  The  expres 
sion  of  his  face  changed  ever  so  little,  and 
lines  appeared  around  his  mouth. 

"I  remember,"  Edith  went  on,  "the  day 
my  mother  died.  It  was  a  perfect  day  late 
in  the  Spring,  when  everything  on  earth  seemed 
to  exult  in  the  joy  of  living.  Outside,  it  was 
life  incarnate,  with  violets  and  robins  and 
apple  blossoms  and  that  ineffable  sweetness 
that  comes  only  then.  Inside,  she  lay  asleep, 
as  pale  and  cold  as  marble.  At  first,  I  couldn't 
believe  it.  I  went  outside,  then  in  again. 
One  robin  came  to  the  tree  outside  her  window 
and  sang  until  my  heart  almost  broke  with 
the  pain  of  it.  And  every  time  I  've  heard  a 
robin  since,  it  all  comes  back  to  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Alden,  quietly,  "but  all  the 
life  outside  was  made  from  death,  and  the 
death  within  had  only  gone  on  to  life  again. 
You  cannot  have  one  without  the  other,  any 
more  than  you  can  have  a  light  without  a 
shadow  somewhere. " 

"Nor  a  shadow,"  Edith  continued,  "with 
out  knowing  that  somewhere  there  must  be 
light." 

They  stopped  at  the  cleft  between  the  hills, 
where  they  had  been  the  other  day,  but  this 
time  no  one  waited,  with  breaking  heart, 
behind  the  rustling  screen  of  leaves.  Against 


280 


at  sunset  the  rock,  with  some  simple  woodcraft  of 
stones  and  dry  twigs,  Alden  made  a  fire, 
while  Edith  spread  the  white  cloth  that 
covered  Madame's  basket  and  set  forth  the 
dainty  fare. 

They  ate  in  silence,  not  because  there  was 
nothing  to  say,  but  because  there  was  so  much 
that  words  seemed  empty  and  vain.  After 
ward,  when  the  flaming  tapestry  in  the  West 
had  faded  to  a  pale  web  of  rose  and  purple, 
faintly  starred  with  exquisite  lamps  of 
gleaming  pearl,  he  came  to  her,  and,  without 
speaking,  took  her  into  his  arms. 

For  a  long  time  they  stood  there,  heart  to 
heart,  in  that  rapturous  communion  wholly 
transcending  sense.  To  him  it  was  not  because 
she  was  a  woman ;  it  was  because  she  was  Edith, 
the  mate  of  his  heart  and  soul.  And,  to  her, 
it  was  a  subtle  completion  of  herself,  the  best 
of  her  answering  eagerly  to  the  best  in  him. 

At  last,  with  a  sigh,  he  pushed  her  gently 
away  from  him,  and  looked  down  into  her  eyes 
with  a  great  sadness. 

"Never  any  more,  beloved.  Have  you 
thought  of  that?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  whispered.  "Never 
any  more." 

"  I  '11  want  you  always." 

"And  I  you." 

"Sometimes  my  heart  will  almost  break 
with  longing  for  you,  craving  the  dear  touch 


of  you,  though  it  might  be  only  to  lay  my 
hand  upon  your  face. " 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"And  at  night,  when  I  dream  that  we're 
somewhere  together,  and  I  reach  out  my  arms 
to  hold  you  close,  I  '11  wake  with  a  start,  to 
find  my  arms  empty  and  my  heart  full." 

"The  whole  world  lies  between  us,  dear." 

"And  heaven  also,  I  think." 

"No,  not  heaven,  for  there  we  shall  find 
each  other  again,  with  no  barriers  to  keep  us 
apart." 

"  I  shall  live  only  to  make  myself  worthy  of 
finding  you,  dearest.  I  have  nothing  else  to 
do." 

"Ah,  but  you  have." 

"What?" 

"The  day's  duty,  always;  the  thing  that 
lies  nearest  your  hand.  You  know,  I  've 
begun  to  see  that  it  is  n't  so  much  our  business 
to  be  happy  as  it  is  to  do  the  things  we  are 
meant  to  do.  And  I  think,  too,  that  happiness 
comes  most  surely  to  those  who  do  not  go  out 
in  search  of  it,  but  do  their  work  patiently, 
and  wait  for  it  to  come." 

"That  may  be  true  for  others,  but  not  for  us. 
What  happiness  is  there  in  the  world  for  me, 
apart  from  you?" 

"Memory,"  she  reminded  him  gently. 
"We've  had  this  much  and  nobody  can 
take  it  away  from  us." 


282 


flDaster  of  tbe 


"But  even  this  will  hurt,  heart's  dearest, 
when  we  see  each  other  no  more." 

"Not  always."  As  she  spoke,  she  sat  down 
on  the  ground  and  leaned  back  against  a  tree. 
He  dropped  down  beside  her,  slipped  his  arm 
around  her,  and  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder, 
softly  kissing  her  hair. 

"I  remember  everything,"  she  went  on, 
"from  the  time  you  met  me  at  the  station. 
I  can  see  you  now  as  you  came  toward  me, 
and  that  memory  is  all  by  itself,  for  nobody 
at  the  very  first  meeting  looks  the  same  as 
afterward.  There  is  always  some  subtle 
change — I  don't  know  why.  Do  I  look  the 
same  to  you  now  as  I  did  then?" 

"You've  always  been  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  world  to  me,  since  the  first  moment 
I  saw  you." 

"No,  not  the  first  moment." 

"When  was  it,  then,  darling?" 

"The  first  night,  when  I  came  down  to 
dinner,  in  that  pale  green  satin  gown.  Don't 
you  remember?" 

"As  if  I  could  ever  forget!" 

"And  you  thought  I  looked  like  a  tiger- 
lily." 

"Did  I?" 

"Yes,  but  you  did  n't  say  it  and  I  was  glad, 
for  so  many  other  men  had  said  it  before." 

"Perhaps  it  was  because,  past  all  your 
splendour,  I  saw  you — the  one  perfect  and 


If  Xore  Mere  Hll 


peerless  woman  God  made  for  me  and  sent 
to  me  too  late." 

"Not  too  late  for  the  best  of  it,  dear." 

"What  else  do  you  remember?" 

"Everything.  I  haven't  forgotten  a  word 
nor  a  look  nor  a  single  kiss.  The  strange 
sweet  fires  in  your  eyes,  the  clasp  of  your  arms 
around  me,  your  lips  on  mine,  the  nights 
we  've  lain  awake  with  love  surging  from  heart 
to  heart  and  back  again — it 's  all  strung  for  me 
into  a  rosary  of  memories  that  nothing  can 
ever  take  away." 

"That  first  kiss,  beloved.  Do  you  re 
member?" 

"Yes.  It  was  here."  She  stretched  out  her 
arm  and  with  a  rosy  finger-tip  indicated  the 
bare,  sweet  hollow  of  her  elbow,  just  below  the 
sleeve. 

Lover-like,  he  kissed  it  again.  "Do  you 
love  me?" 

"Yes,  Boy — for  always." 

"How  much?" 

"Better  than  everything  else  in  the  world. 
Do  you  love  me?" 

"Yes,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  and 
strength  and  will.  There  is  n't  a  fibre  of  me 
that  does  n't  love  you." 

"For  always?" 

"Yes,  for  always." 

And  so  they  chanted  the  lover's  litany  until 
even  the  afterglow  had  died  out  of  the  sky. 


284  flDaster  of  tbe 


it  Edith  released  herself  from  his  clinging  arms. 
"We  must  go,"  she  sighed.  "It's  getting 
late." 

He  assisted  her  to  her  feet,  and  led  her  to 
the  boat,  moored  in  shallows  that  made  a 
murmurous  singing  all  around  it  and  upon  the 
shore.  He  took  her  hand  to  help  her  in,  then 
paused. 

"If  love  were  all,"  he  asked,  "what  would 
you  do?" 

"If  love  were  all,"  she  answered,  "I  'd  put 
my  arms  around  you,  like  this,  never  to  be 
unclasped  again.  I  'd  go  with  you  to-night, 
to  the  end  of  the  world,  and  ask  for  nothing 
but  that  we  might  be  together.  I  'd  face 
the  heat  of  the  desert  uncomplainingly,  the 
cold  of  perpetual  snows.  I  'd  bear  anything, 
suffer  anything,  do  anything.  I  'd  so  merge 
my  life  with  yours  that  one  heart-beat  would 
serve  us  both,  and  when  we  died,  we  'd  go  to 
gether  —  if  love  were  all." 

"God  bless  you,  dear!"  he  murmured,  with 
his  lips  against  hers. 

"And  you.    Come." 

The  boat  swung  out  over  the  shallows  into 
the  middle  of  the  stream,  where  the  current 
took  them  slowly  and  steadily  toward  home. 
For  the  most  part  they  drifted,  though  Alden 
took  care  to  keep  the  boat  well  out  from  shore, 
and  now  and  then,  with  the  stroke  of  an  oar 
dipped  up  a  myriad  of  mirrored  stars. 


If  Xot>e  mere  HU 


Edith  laughed.  "Give  me  one,  won't  you, 
please?" 

"You  shall  have  them  all." 

"But  I  asked  only  for  one." 

"Then  choose." 

She  leaned  forward,  in  the  scented  shadow, 
serious  now,  with  a  quick  and  characteristic 
change  of  mood.  "The  love  star,"  she 
breathed.  "  Keep  it  burning  for  me,  will  you, 
in  spite  of  clouds  and  darkness — for  always?" 

"Yes,  my  queen — for  always." 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Madame  was 
nowhere  in  sight.  Divining  their  wish  to  be 
alone  on  this  last  evening  together,  she  had 
long  since  gone  to  her  own  room.  The  candles 
on  the  mantel  had  been  lighted  and  the  reading 
lamp  burned  low.  Near  it  was  the  little  red 
book  that  Edith  had  found  at  the  top  of  the 
Hill  of  the  Muses. 

Sighing,  she  took  it  up.  "How  long  ago  it 
seems,"  she  said,  "and  yet  it  wasn't.  Life 
began  for  me  that  night." 

"And  for  me.  I  read  to  you,  do  you  remem 
ber,  just  before  I  kissed  you  for  the  first  time?" 

"Yes.  Read  to  me  again  just  before  you 
kiss  me  for  the  last  time,  then  give  me  the 
book  to  keep." 

"Which  one?    The  same?" 

"No,"  cried  Edith.     "Anything  but  that!" 

"  Then  choose.  Close  your  eyes,  and  choose. " 

"  It 's  like  seeking  for  a  message,  or  a  sign," 


286 


flDaster  of  tbe  Dtnevarfc 


SevcrcS 
Selves 


she  said,  as  she  swiftly  turned  the  pages. 
Then,  with  her  eyes  still  closed,  she  offered  him 
the  book.  "Here — read  this.  Is  it  a  blank 
page?" 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Edith  opened  her 
eyes.  "It  is  n't  the  first  one  you  read  to  me, 
is  it?  Don't  tell  me  that  it  is!" 

"No,"  said  Alden,  "it  isn't,  but  it's  a 
message.  Listen." 

She  sat  down,  in  her  old  place,  but  he  stood 
at  the  table,  bending  toward  the  light.  His 
boyish  mouth  trembled  a  little,  his  hands  were 
unsteady,  and  there  was  a  world  of  love  and 
pain  in  his  eyes.  With  his  voice  breaking 
upon  the  words,  he  read: 

"  Two  separate  divided  silences, 

Which,  brought  together,  would  find  loving  voice; 

Two  glances  which  together  would  rejoice 
In  love,  now  lost  like  stars  beyond  dark  trees; 
Two  hands  apart,  whose  touch  alone  gives  ease; 

Two  bosoms  which,  heart-shrined  with  mutual  flame, 

Would,  meeting  in  one  clasp,  be  made  the  same; 
Two  souls,  the  shores  wave-mocked  of  sundering  seas: — 

Such  are  we  now.     Ah!  may  our  hope  forecast 
Indeed  one  hour  again,  when  on  this  stream 
Of  darkened  love  once  more  the  light  shall  gleam? — 
An  hour  how  slow  to  come,  how  quickly  past, — 
Which  blooms  and  fades,  and  only  leaves  at  last, 
Faint  as  shed  flowers,  the  attenuated  dream." 

For  a  moment  the  silence  was  tense.  Then 
the  hall  clock  struck  the  hour  of  midnight. 


It  Xovc  Merc  BlI 


It  beat  upon  their  senses  like  a  funeral  knell. 
Then  Edith,  white-faced,  and  struggling  val 
iantly  for  self-control,  reached  out  her  hand 
for  the  book. 

"Good-night,  Boy,"  she  said,  "for  the 
last  time." 

"Good-night,"  he  answered,  gathering  her 
into  his  arms. 

"And  good-bye,  Boy,  forever!" 
"Forever,"  he  echoed,  "good-bye!" 
He  kissed  her  again,  not  with  passion,  but 
with  the  love  that  has  risen  above  it.     Then 
she  released  herself,   and,    holding   the  little 
red    book    against    her    heart,    ran    quickly 
upstairs. 

He  waited  until  the  echo  of  her  footsteps 
had  died  away,  and  her  door  had  closed  softly. 
Then  he  put  out  the  lights,  and  sat  there  for 
a  long  time  in  the  darkness,  thinking,  before 
he  went  to  his  room. 


288 


XX 


Grant* 
mother'* 

loss 


"Gbe 


traveller 


"'"THEY  ain't  on  the  bureau  and  they  ain't 

1  on  the  washstand,  and  I  disremember 
takin'  'em  out  last  night  when  I  went  to  bed, 
so  I  must  have  swallered  'em."  Grandmother's 
speech  was  somewhat  blurred  but  her  meaning 
was  distinct. 

"Well,"  returned  Matilda,  with  aggravating 
calmness,  "if  you  have  swallowed  'em,  you 
have,  so  what  of  it?" 

"Matilda  Starr!  I  should  think  you'd 
have  some  human  feelin's  about  you  some- 
wheres.  Here  your  mother  's  gone  and  swal 
lered  her  false  teeth  and  you  set  there,  not 
tryin'  to  do  anything  for  her." 

"What  can  I  do?  I  can't  stand  on  a  chair 
and  swing  you  by  your  feet,  same  as  Mis' 
Bates  did  when  her  little  Henry  choked  on  a 
marble,  can  I?  Besides,  you  couldn't  have 
swallowed  'em.  You  '11  find  'em  somewheres." 

"Maybe  I  could  n't  have  swallered  'em,  but 
I  have,"  Grandmother  mumbled.  "What's 
more,  I  feel  'em  workin'  now  inside  me. 


traveller" 


They  're  chewing  on  the  linin'  of  my  stomach, 
and  it  hurts." 

"  I  did  n't  know  there  was  any  linin'  in 
your  stomach." 

"There  is.     It  said  so  in  the  paper." 

"Did  it  say  anything  about  hooks  and  eyes 
and  whalebones?  What  kind  of  a  linin'  is 
it — cambric,  or  drillin'?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  set  there,  Matilda, 
and  make  fun  of  your  poor  old  mother,  when 
she  's  bein'  eaten  alive  by  her  own  teeth.  I 
would  n't  treat  a  dog  like  that,  much  less  my 
own  flesh  and  blood." 

"  I  've  never  heard  of  dogs  bein'  et  by  their 
own  teeth,"  commented  Matilda,  missing  the 
point. 

Ostentatiously  lame,  Grandmother  limped 
to  the  decrepit  sofa  and  lay  down  with  a  groan. 
Rosemary  came  in  from  the  kitchen  with  the 
oatmeal,  and  was  about  to  go  back  for  the 
coffee  when  another  groan  arrested  her 
attention. 

"What 's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"  I  'm  dyin',  Rosemary,"  Grandmother  mum 
bled,  hoarsely.  "  I  've  swallered  my  teeth, 
and  I  am  dyin'  in  agony." 

"Nonsense!  You  couldn't  have  swallowed 
your  teeth!" 

"That 's  what  I  told  her,"  said  Miss  Matilda, 
triumphantly. 

"But     I     have,"     Grandmother     retorted, 


290 


/toaster  of  tbe 


•Rosemary 
to  tbe 

IRescue 


feebly.  "I  can  feel  'em — here."  She  placed 
her  hand  upon  her  ill-defined  waist  line,  and 
groaned  again. 

Rosemary  ran  upstairs,  inspired  to  unusual 
speed  by  the  heartrending  sounds  that  came 
from  below.  When  she  returned,  Grandmother 
seemed  to  be  in  a  final  spasm,  and  even  Matilda 
was  frightened,  though  she  would  not  have 
admitted  it. 

"Here,"  said  Rosemary.  "Now  come  to 
breakfast." 

Grandmother  rolled  her  eyes  helplessly 
toward  Rosemary,  then  suddenly  sat  up. 
"Where  'd  you  get  'em?"  she  demanded,  in  a 
different  tone. 

"They  were  on  the  floor  under  the  wash- 
stand.  Please  come  before  everything  gets 
cold." 

"I  told  you  you  hadn't  swallowed  'em," 
remarked  Matilda,  caustically. 

"Maybe  I  didn't,  but  I  might  have," 
rejoined  Grandmother.  "Anyhow,  I  've  seen 
how  you  'd  all  act  in  case  I  had  swallered 
'em,  and  I  know  who  to  leave  my  money  to 
when  I  die."  She  beamed  kindly  upon 
Rosemary,  in  whom  the  mention  of  money 
had  produced  mingled  emotions  of  anger  and 
resentment. 

"If  you  had  swallowed  'em,  Rosemary 
couldn't  have  got  'em,"  Matilda  objected. 

"She'd    have    tried,"    said    the   old    lady, 


traveller" 


sharply,  "and  that's  more  than  can  be  said 
of  some  folks.  Not  mentionin'  any  names." 

Breakfast  bade  fair  to  be  a  lively  sparring 
match  when  Rosemary  interposed,  pacifically: 
"Nevermind  what  might  have  been.  Let's 
be  glad  she  didn't  swallow  them."  As  the 
others  accepted  this  compromise,  the  remainder 
of  the  meal  proceeded  in  comparative  peace. 

"  I  heard  from  the  milkman  this  morning," 
said  Matilda,  "that  Marshs'  company  has 
gone." 

"Gone!"  repeated  Grandmother.  "What 
for?  I  thought  she  had  come  to  stay  a  spell." 

"Gone!"  echoed  Rosemary,  in  astonishment. 

"  Did  she  go  sudden?"  queried  Grandmother. 

"Well,  in  a  way  it  was  sudden,  and  in  a 
way  't  was  n't.  She  was  more  'n  a  whole  day 
puttin'  her  clothes  into  her  trunks — the  re 
spectable  trunk,  and  the  big  trunk,  and  the 
dog-house,  and  the  one  what  had  bulges  on  all 
sides  but  one." 

"What  train  did  she  go  on?" 

"The  eight  o'clock  accommodation,  yester 
day  morning.  Young  Marsh  went  down  to 
see  her  off,  and  the  station  agent  told  the 
milkman  that  he  stood  lookin'  after  the  train 
until  you  could  n't  even  see  the  smoke  from 
the  engine.  The  agent  was  restin'  after  havin' 
helped  hist  the  trunks  on  the  train,  and  young 
Marsh  up  and  handed  him  out  a  dollar,  without 
even  sayin'  what  it  was  for.  He  reckoned  it 


292  flDaster  ot  tbe 


was  pay  for  stoppin'  the  train  and  helpin'  to 
put  on  the  trunks,  but  the  railroad  pays  him 
for  doin'  that,  so  the  milkman  thinks  it  was 
kind  of  a  thank-off erin',  on  account  of  her 
havin'  stayed  so  long  that  they  was  glad  to  get 
rid  of  her." 

"'T  was  n't  no  thank-offerin',"  replied  Grand 
mother,  shaking  her  head  sagely.  "That's 
what  they  call  a  tip." 

"The  agent  was  some  upset  by  it,"  Matilda 
agreed.  "He's  been  keepin'  station  here  for 
more  'n  ten  years  now  and  nobody  ever  did  the 
likes  of  that  before." 

"I  didn't  say  it  was  an  upsetment — I  said 
it  was  a  tip." 

"What 's  the  difference?" 

"A  tip  is  money  that  you  give  somebody 
who  thinks  he 's  done  something  for  you, 
whether  you  think  he  has  or  not." 

"I    don't  understand,"   Matilda   muttered. 

"I  didn't  either,  at  first,"  Grandmother 
admitted,  "but  I  was  readin'  a  piece  in  the 
paper  about  women  travellin'  alone  and  it 
said  that  'in  order  to  insure  comfort,  a  tip 
should  be  given  for  every  slight  service.' 
Them  's  the  very  words." 

"It  means  bowin',  then,"  returned  Matilda. 
"Bowin'  and  sayin',  'Thank  you.'" 

"It's  no  such  thing.  Wait  till  I  get  the 
paper." 

After  a  prolonged  search  through  the  hoarded 


Ube  Xafcv>  traveller" 


treasures  of  the  past  three  or  four  months, 
Grandmother  came  back  to  her  chair  by  the 
window,  adjusted  her  spectacles,  and  began 
to  read  "The  Lady  Traveller  by  Land." 

"  'When  it  becomes  necessary,  for  the  sake 
of  either  business  or  pleasure,  for  a  lady  to 
start  out  upon  a  trip  alone,  no  matter  how 
short,  she  should  make  all  her  preparations 
well  in  advance,  so  that  she  need  not  be  hur 
ried  just  before  starting,  and  may  embark 
upon  her  journey  with  that  peaceful  and 
contented  mind  which  is  so  essential  to  the 
true  enjoyment  of  travelling. 

'"She  will, of  course,  travel  with  the  smallest 
amount  of  baggage  compatible  with  comfort, 
but  a  few  small  articles  that  should  not  be 
overlooked  will  more  than  repay  the  slight 
trouble  caused  by  their  transportation.  Among 
these  may  be  mentioned  the  medicine  chest, 
in  which  are  a  few  standard  household  remedies 
for  illness  or  accident,  a  bottle  of  smelling- 
salts,  another  of  cologne,  and  a  roll  of  old 
linen  for  bandages.  While  accident  is  not 
at  all  likely,  it  is  just  as  well  to  be  prepared 
for  all  emergencies. 

'"The  lady  traveller  will  naturally  carry 
her  own  soap  and  towels,  and  also  a  silk  or 
cotton  bag  for  her  hat.  She— 

"A  what  for  her  hat?"  asked  Matilda,  with 
unmistakable  interest. 

"'A    silk    or    cotton    bag   for    her  hat," 


294 


toaster  of  tbe  IDinesaro 


ttbe 
t>at»JBag 


Grandmother  repeated.  "'To  keep  the  dust 
out.'" 

"What 's  the  good  of  wearin'  a  hat  if  she  's 
got  to  set  with  a  bag  over  it?" 

"It  doesn't  say  she's  to  wear  the  bag." 

"Well,  she's  wearin'  the  hat,  ain't  she? 
How 's  she  to  put  the  bag  over  the  hat 
while  she  's  wearin'  the  hat  without  wearin' 
the  bag  too?  That 's  what  I  'd  like  to  know." 

"Maybe  it 's  to  put  her  hat  into  when  she 
takes  it  off  for  the  night,"  Grandmother  sug 
gested,  hopefully,  though  she  was  not  at  all 
sure.  "A  person  ain't  likely  to  get  much  sleep 
in  a  hat." 

"No,  nor  in  a  bag  neither." 

"'She  should  also  carry  her  luncheon,  as 
the  meals  supplied  to  travellers  are  either  poor 
or  expensive,  or  both.  With  a  small  spirit 
lamp  she  can  very  easily  make  coffee  or  tea 
for  herself,  or  heat  a  cupful  of  milk  should  she 
be  restless  in  the  night.  Care  should  be  taken, 
however,  not  to  set  fire  to  the  curtains  sur 
rounding  the  berth  in  this  latter  emergency.' 

"'The  curtains  surrounding  the  berth,'" 
Grandmother  repeated,  in  a  wavering  voice. 
"It's  printed  wrong.  They've  got  it  b-e-r-t-h." 

"Seems  to  me,"  murmured  Matilda,  "that 
a  woman  who — 

"Matilda!"  interrupted  Grandmother,  im 
periously.  For  a  moment  the  silence  was 
awkward.  "Unmarried  women  ain't  got  any 


Ube  Xafcg  traveller1 


call  to  be  thinkin'  about  such  things,  let  alone 
speakin'  of  'em.  This  piece  is  written  to 
cover  all  possible  emergencies  of  the  lady 
traveller,  but  it  ain't  for  such  as  you  to  be 
askin'  questions  about  what  don't  concern 
you." 

"Go   ahead,"    said    Matilda,    submissively. 

"Where  was  I?  Oh,  yes.  'The  ladies' 
dressing-room  will  always  be  found  at  one  of 
the  two  ends  of  the  car.  Care  should  be  taken 
early  in  the  journey  to  ascertain  which  end. 
If  there  are  many  ladies  in  the  car,  one  should 
rise  early,  to  take  advantage  of  the  unoccupied 
room  for  a  cooling  and  refreshing  sponge  bath. 
1 1  will  be  necessary  to  carry  a  sponge  for  this, 
and  a  small  bag  of  rubber  or  oiled  silk  should 
be  made  for  it  to  prevent  moistening  the 
contents  of  the  suit-case  after  using.' ' 

"Supposin'  they  all  subscribed  for  this 
paper,"  Matilda  objected,  "and  all  should  rise 
early  for  the  cooling  and  refreshing  sponge 
bath?" 

"'T ain't  likely,"  Grandmother  answered. 
"  'After  the  bath  one  should  take  plenty  of  time 
to  dress,  as  nothing  is  less  conducive  to 
comfort  in  travelling  than  the  feeling  that  one 
has  been  too  hastily  attired.  By  this  time, 
the  porter  will  have  the  berth  in  order,  if  he 
has  been  tipped  the  night  before.' " 

Matilda  murmured  inarticulately,  but  was 
too  wise  to  speak. 


296  dDaster  ot  tbe 


"'The  usual  tip/"  Grandmother  continued, 
hastily,  with  her  cheeks  burning,  '"is  twenty- 
five  cents  for  each  person  every  twenty-four 
hours.  In  order  to  insure  comfort,  a  tip  should 
be  given  for  every  slight  service,  but  nothing 
smaller  than  five  cents  should  ever  be  given 
at  any  one  time. 

"'It  has  been  said  that  a  porter  is  a  dark 
gentleman  who  has  been  employed  to  keep 
air  out  of  the  car,  but  the  lady  traveller  will 
find  it  easy  to  induce  him  to  open  a  ventilator 
or  two  if  he  has  been  properly  tipped.  Fresh 
air  is  very  essential  for  the  true  enjoyment  of 
travelling. 

"'He  can  throw  many  little  comforts  in  one's 
way  —  a  pillow  during  the  daytime  or  an  extra 
blanket  at  night,  or— 

"I  don't  know,"  Matilda  interrupted,  "as 
I  'd  care  to  have  comforts  or  pillows  or  blankets 
thrown  at  me,  night  or  day,  especially  by  a 
man,  no  matter  what  colour  he  is." 

'"Mindful  always  of  the  possibility  of  acci 
dent/"  Grandmother  resumed,  '"it  is  well  to 
keep  one's  self  as  presentable  as  possible, 
especially  during  the  night,  when  according  to 
statistics  the  majority  of  wrecks  occur.  Con 
sequently  the  experienced  lady  traveller  will 
not  undress  entirely,  but  merely  removing  a 
few  of  her  outer  garments,  and  keeping  her 
shoes  within  easy  reach,  she  will  don  a  com 
fortable  dressing-gown,  and  compose  herself 


traveller " 


for  sleep.  Some  people  prefer  to  have  the 
berth  made  up  feet  first,  but  it  is  always  better 
to  have  the  head  toward  the  engine,  as  experi 
ence  has  proved  that  the  slight  motion  of  the 
train  assists  the  circulation,  which  should  run 
toward  the  feet  if  sleep  is  to  be  enjoyed  during 
the  night. 

" '  If,  owing  to  circumstances,  it  is  impossible 
to  carry  a  luncheon  and  one  must  either  leave 
the  train  for  one's  meals  or  go  into  the  dining- 
car,  there  are  a  few  very  simple  rules  to  re 
member.  In  case  the  meal  is  to  be  taken  at  a 
wayside  station,  and,  as  often  happens,  there 
is  more  than  one  eating-house  which  offers 
refreshment,  the  lady  traveller  should  wait 
quietly  by  her  own  car  until  she  sees  into  which 
place  the  train  officials  go.  Remember  that 
they  have  been  over  the  road  before  and  know 
where  the  most  comfortable  and  reasonable 
meal  is  to  be  had. 

'"Upon  the  other  hand,  if  one  goes  into  the 
dining-car,  the  same  rules  apply  as  at  any 
well-regulated  hotel.  From  the  list  of  dishes 
which  will  be  offered  her  upon  a  printed  card, 
the  lady  traveller  may  select  such  as  seem 
attractive,  and,  in  case  of  doubt,  she  may  with 
perfect  propriety  ask  the  waiter  to  make  a 
selection  for  her,  as  he  has  been  placed  there 
by  the  company  for  that  purpose. 

'"Having  eaten  to  her  satisfaction,  she  will 
carefully  compare  the  check  which  is  brought 


298  flDaster  of  tbe 


her  with  the  list  of  prices  given  upon  the  printed 
card,  add  them  up  mentally  without  seeming  to 
do  so,  and  if  all  is  right,  pay  the  bill,  giving 
to  the  waiter  ten  per  cent  of  the  total  amount 
for  a  tip.  That  is,  if  the  check  calls  for  one 
dollar,  the  waiter  will  receive  a  dollar  and  ten 
cents.'" 

"What  for?"  queried  Matilda. 

"That's  his  tip,"  explained  the  old  lady. 
"That  's  what  I  've  been  tellin'  you  all  along." 

"Does  it  cost  ten  dollars  to  go  to  the  city?" 

"Not  as  I  know  of.  The  fare  used  to  be 
four  dollars  and  somethin'.  Why?" 

"Then  why  did  young  Marsh  give  the  station 
agent  a  dollar?  That  's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  You  can't  find  out  from  me,"  Grandmother 
answered,  with  all  evidence  of  having  told  the 
literal  truth.  "Shall  I  go  on  with  this  piece 
I  'm  tryin'  to  read,  or  don't  you  want  your 
mind  improved  none?" 

"  I  'm  willing  to  have  my  mind  improved,  but 
I  'd  like  the  privilege  of  askin'  a  question 
occasionally  while  it  's  being  done." 

"  Last  week's  paper  said  there  was  no  way  of 
improvin'  the  mind  that  was  to  be  compared 
with  readin'.  Shall  I  go  on?" 

"Yes  —  go  on." 

'"If  the  check  calls  for  a  dollar  and  a  half, 
the  waiter  will  receive  an  extra  fifteen  cents 
for  his  tip,  and  so  on.  In  case  of  any  disagree 
ment,  always  refer  to  the  train  officials,  who 


Ube  Xafcs  traveller  ."  299 


are    usually    courteous    and   well-mannered. 
Should  they  not  be  so,  however,  a  threat  to 

i        n        •  i  r      i  M          i        -11     Hcquatnta 

write  to    the  President  of   the   railroad  will       anceB 
usually  be  found  all  sufficient  to  produce  a 
change  of  demeanour. 

"  '  The  lady  traveller  should  bear  in  mind  the 
fact  that  it  is  impossible  to  confine  the  pleasures 
and  privileges  of  travel  to  entirely  reputable 
persons,  and  should  hence  keep  upon  the  safe 
side  by  making  no  chance  acquaintances, 
whatever  the  provocation  may  be. 

"'By  wearing  dark  clothes,  preferably  her 
old  ones,  an  unassuming  hat,  and  no  jewelry, 
the  lady  traveller  may  render  herself  incon 
spicuous  and  not  likely  to  attract  masculine 
attention.  In  case  of  accident  it  is  allowable 
to  accept  assistance  from  anyone,  though  the 
train  officials  are  at  all  times  to  be  preferred. 
If  one  desires  to  know  what  time  it  is,  how 
late  the  train  is,  how  long  the  train  will  stop 
at  the  next  meal  station,  or  when  one  is  due 
at  one's  destination,  the  train  officials  are  the 
ones  to  ask. 

"'Upon  along  and  tedious  journey,  however, 
or  in  case  of  many  prolonged  delays,  it  is 
quite  permissible  to  exchange  a  few  words 
upon  the  weather  or  some  other  topic  of 
mutual  interest  with  a  fellow-passenger  of  the 
same  sex,  whether  she  be  travelling  alone,  or 
accompanied  by  her  husband. 

'"Pleasant    acquaintances     are    sometimes 


300 


flDaster  of  tbe 


Httbc 
36n6  of  tbe 


formed  in  this  way,  and  it  may  be  entirely 
safe  and  proper,  under  certain  circumstances, 
to  accept  small  courtesies  from  a  gentleman 
who  is  travelling  with  his  wife,  such  as  the 
brief  loan  of  a  newspaper  or  magazine,  or 
information  regarding  the  scenery  through 
which  the  train  is  passing  when  none  of  the 
train  officials  are  at  hand. 

"'It  is  best,  however,  to  be  very  careful, 
for  it  is  much  easier  not  to  begin  friendly 
relations  with  one's  fellow  passengers  than 
it  is  to  discontinue  such  relations  after  they 
have  been  once  begun. 

"'It  is  seldom  necessary,  or  even  advisable, 
to  give  one's  name  to  anyone  except  the 
officials  of  the  train,  but  there  can  be  no  objec 
tion  to  showing  a  fellow-passenger  of  the  same 
sex  one's  name  upon  one's  ticket  if  polite 
relations  have  been  established.  This  is  better 
than  speaking  the  name  aloud,  which  might 
cause  embarrassment  if  it  were  overheard, 
and  carries  with  it  no  such  social  obligation 
as  the  exchange  of  cards  would  do. 

"'Arriving  at  her  destination,  the  lady 
traveller  should  proceed  at  once  to  her  hotel 
or  lodging-house,  if  no  friend  is  to  meet  her, 
regardless  of  the  plans  of  her  fellow  passengers. 
If  one  should  chance  to  meet  any  of  them 
afterward,  a  courteous  inclination  of  the  head, 
accompanied  by  a  bright  smile,  is  sufficient 
recognition,  or,  if  for  any  reason  one  prefers 


Xat>v>  traveller" 


not  to  recognise  those  with  whom  one  has 
travelled,  all  that  is  necessary  is  to  appear  not 
to  see  them. 

"'In  case  a  gentleman  should  attempt  to 
converse  with  the  lady  traveller  while  the 
train  is  in  motion  or  at  rest,  this  same  conduct 
meets  the  exigencies  of  the  situationadmirably: 
simply  do  not  appear  to  see  him.  If,  however, 
he  continues  to  converse,  turn  to  him,  and 
say  in  a  low,  well-controlled  voice:  "Sir,  if 
you  persist  further  in  forcing  your  unwelcome 
attentions  upon  me,  I  shall  summon  the  con 
ductor  at  once." 

" '  In  most  cases,  the  objectionable  party  will 
at  once  leave  and  the  interference  of  the  con 
ductor  will  not  be  required. 

"'The  next  article  in  this  series  will  deal 
with  "The  Lady  Traveller  by  Water,"  where 
conditions  are  entirely  different  and  require 
a  different  line  of  conduct.'" 

"There,"  said  Grandmother,  clearing  her 
throat  and  folding  up  the  paper.  "I  hope 
you  understand  now  what  a  tip  is." 

"It  seems  to  be  one  tenth  of  all  you've 
got,"  observed  Matilda,  staring  out  of  the 
window,  "like  those  religious  sects  that  believes 
in  givin'  a  tenth  of  everything  to  the  church." 

"Travellin'  must  be  terribly  exciting," 
remarked  Grandmother,  pensively. 

"So  'tis,"  Matilda  agreed  after  a  pause. 
"  I  reckon  it 's  better  to  stay  at  home." 


302 


B  Suncb 
of  Crapes 


XXI 


UJdeawng  of  tbe  ZTapestrp 


ALDEN  threw  himself  into  his  work  with 
feverish  energy,  instinctively  relieving 
his  mind  by  wearying  his  body.  All  day  he 
toiled  in  the  vineyard,  returning  at  night 
white-faced  and  exhausted,  but  content. 

One  morning  when  Madame  came  down  to 
breakfast,  she  found  at  her  plate  a  single 
bunch  of  grapes,  wet  with  dew  and  still  cool 
with  the  chill  of  the  night.  She  took  it 
up  with  an  exclamation  of  pleasure,  for  never, 
within  her  memory,  had  such  grapes  as  these 
come  even  from  the  Marsh  vineyards. 

She  held  the  heavy  cluster  to  the  sunlight, 
noting  the  perfect  shape  of  the  fruit,  the  purple 
goblets  filled  with  sweetness,  and  the  fairy- 
like  bloom,  more  delicate  even  than  the  dust 
on  the  butterfly's  wing.  Pride  and  thankfulness 
filled  her  heart,  for,  to  her,  it  was  not  only 
their  one  source  of  income  but  a  trust  imposed 
upon  them  by  those  who  had  laid  out  the 
vineyard,  and,  more  than  all  else,  the  standard 
by  which  her  son  was  to  succeed  or  fail. 


Ube  Weaving  ot  tbe 


The  tribal  sense  was  strong  in  Madame,  last 
though  she  was  of  a  long  and  noble  line. 
Uninterruptedly  the  blood  of  the  Marshs 
had  coursed  through  generation  after  genera 
tion,  carrying  with  it  the  high  dower  of 
courage,  of  strength  to  do  the  allotted  task 
hopefully  and  well.  And  now — Madame's  face 
saddened,  remembering  Edith. 

Since  her  one  attempt  to  cross  the  silence 
that  lay  like  a  two-edged  sword  between  them, 
Madame  had  said  nothing  to  Alden.  Nor 
had  he  even  mentioned  Edith's  name  since 
she  went  away,  though  his  face,  to  the  loving 
eyes  of  his  mother,  bore  its  own  message. 

Night  after  night,  when  they  sat  in  the 
living-room  after  dinner,  no  word  would  be 
spoken  by  either  until  bedtime,  when  Madame 
would  say  "Good-night,"  and,  in  pity,  slip 
away,  leaving  him  to  follow  when  he  chose. 
Sometimes  he  would  answer,  but,  more  fre 
quently,  he  did  not  even  hear  his  mother  leave 
the  room.  Yearning  over  him  as  only  a 
mother  may,  Madame  would  lie  awake  with 
her  door  ajar,  listening  for  his  step  upon  the 
stairs. 

While  the  night  waxed  and  waned,  Alden 
sat  alone,  his  eyes  fixed  unalterably  upon 
Edith's  empty  chair,  in  which,  by  common 
consent,  neither  of  them  sat.  The  soft  outlines 
of  her  figure  seemed  yet  to  lie  upon  the  faded 
tapestry;  the  high,  carved  back  seemed  still 


304 


/iDaster  ot  tbe  IDine^arfc 


Xjalm  for 
Bl&cn 


to  bear  the  remembered  splendour  of  her 
beautiful  head. 

After  Madame  had  gone,  Alden  would  some 
times  light  the  candle  that  stood  upon  the 
piano,  mute  now  save  for  the  fingers  of  Memory. 
Moving  the  bench  out  a  little  and  turning  it 
slightly  toward  the  end  of  the  room,  he  would 
go  back  to  his  own  far  corner,  where  he  used 
to  sit  while  Edith  played. 

Conjuring  her  gracious  image  out  of  the 
dreamy  shadows,  he  found  balm  for  his  sore 
heart  in  the  white  gown  that  fell  softly  around 
her,  the  small  white  foot  that  now  and  then 
pressed  the  pedal,  the  long,  graceful  line  that 
swept  from  her  shoulder  to  her  finger-tips,  the 
faint  hollow  where  her  gown,  with  the  softness 
of  a  caress,  melted  into  the  ivory  whiteness 
of  her  neck,  the  thick,  creamy  skin,  in  some 
way  suggesting  white  rose-leaves,  the  scarlet, 
wistful  mouth,  the  deep  brown  eyes  reflecting 
golden  lights,  and  the  crown  of  wonderful 
hair  that  shimmered  and  shone  and  gleamed 
like  burnished  gold. 

The  subtle  sweetness  of  her  filled  the  room. 
She  had  left  behind  her  not  only  a  memory 
but  the  enduring  impress  of  personality. 
The  house  was  full  of  Ediths.  There  was  one 
at  the  table,  another  at  the  piano,  one  leaning 
against  the  mantel  with  hands  clasped  behind 
her,  another  in  a  high-backed  rocker,  leaning 
back  against  a  dull  green  cushion,  and  one  upon 


TTbc  Meaning  of  tbe  ZTapestig 


305 


the  stairway,  ascending  with  light  steps  that 
died  away  with  the  closing  of  a  door,  or  de 
scending  with  a  quick  rustle  of  silken  skirts 
that  presently  merged  into  perfume,  then  into 
her. 

Every  gown  she  had  worn,  every  word  she 
had  said,  every  laugh  that  had  wakened 
slumbering  echoes  with  its  low,  vibrant  con 
tralto,  came  remorselessly  back.  Full  tides  of 
longing  beat  pitilessly  upon  his  senses,  never, 
it  seemed,  to  ebb  again.  And  yet,  at  times, 
when  his  whole  soul  so  cried  out  for  her  that 
he  stretched  his  arms,  in  yearning,  toward  the 
myriad  phantom  Ediths  that  peopled  the 
room,  mystical  assurance  would  come  from 
somewhere  that  she,  too,  was  keeping  the 
night  watch. 

Through  the  tense  and  throbbing  darkness, 
love  sped  from  one  to  the  other  as  though  upon 
ghostly  wings.  Neither  sight  nor  sound  nor 
touch  betrayed  its  coming,  yet  the  call  and  the 
answer  were  always  divinely  sure.  As  though 
they  two  stood  dumbly  on  either  side  of  some 
mysterious  portal,  denied  all  things  save 
longing,  heart-beat  answered  unto  heart-beat 
in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

The  experience  invariably  brought  comfort 
and  a  certain  release  from  pain.  Denial  seemed 
to  be  but  another  phase  of  fulfilment,  since 
it  opened  the  way  for  this  exquisite  belonging 
of  one  to  the  other.  Beyond  and  above  all 


IRdease 
from  pain 


306 


dDaster  of  tbe 


Uoiling  in 
tbe 


lure  of  woman,  wholly  aside  from  the  ecstasy 
of  sight  and  touch,  she  was  his  as  inseparably 
as  perfume  belongs  to  the  rose  that  breathes 
it  forth. 

While  he  worked  in  the  vineyard  it  was 
consciously  for  her.  For  her  sake  he  aspired 
to  make  the  best  of  himself;  to  make  this  hill 
side  yield  its  purple  banners  from  the  secret 
storehouses  within.  So  he  had  struggled  with 
soil  and  season,  with  suns  that  scorched  and 
winds  that  chilled,  with  parching  days  that 
opened  the  earth  in  great  crevices,  and  with 
torrents  that  made  the  paths  between  the  vines 
impassable  for  days. 

From  the  wide  windows  that  overlooked  the 
valley,  Madame  watched  the  vineyard  with  an 
anxious  heart.  She,  too,  had  toiled  as  far  as 
a  woman  might,  in  the  years  that  elapsed 
between  the  death  of  her  husband  and  the 
maturity  of  her  son.  Sometimes  all  the  powers 
and  purposes  of  Nature  had  apparently  been 
arrayed  against  her,  and,  again,  as  at  the 
touch  of  a  magic  wand,  the  earth  had  yielded 
up  its  fruit. 

Yet  she  had  never  lost  her  courage.  Know 
ing  that  the  logical  strength  of  position  lies 
nearly  always  with  the  pursuer,  she  would 
never  own  herself  beaten,  though  there  was  a 
time  of  terror  when  the  crop  failed  for  three 
successive  years. 

Now  the  tapestry  lay  before  her,  well  on 


"Deleaving  of  tbe 


307 


its  way  to  completion.  She  had  watched  the 
great  web  spread  upon  the  hillside,  year  by 
year,  from  snow  to  snow  again.  Surrounding 
it  on  three  sides,  like  the  frame  upon  which  it 
was  stretched,  were  the  stalwart  pines  that 
protected  it  from  the  icy  winds.  Below,  like  a 
silver  ribbon,  the  river  irregularly  bounded 
it,  a  shining  line  of  demarcation  between  the 
valley  and  the  opposite  hills. 

When  the  snows  were  deep,  there  were  only 
gentle  undulations  to  mark  the  covered  vines. 
Even  the  pines  bent  low  with  it,  as  though 
hoary  with  their  weight  of  years.  When  the 
snows  melted,  tiny  crystal  rivulets  ran  down 
the  tapestry,  into  the  silver  ribbon  that  was 
stretched  across  the  foot,  and  upon  a  neutral 
background  of  earth  the  black,  tangled 
threads  showed  dimly. 

In  a  night,  almost,  there  would  come  a 
change.  Where  the  threads  had  lain  hope 
lessly  matted,  appeared  some  semblance  of 
order,  as  though  the  Weaver  had  come.  Then, 
as  they  became  separate  groups,  a  faint  glow 
of  green  dawned  above  them,  not  so  much 
colour  as  the  promise  of  colour,  not  so  much 
design  as  the  planning  of  it. 

Through  and  through  the  web,  like  the 
Weaver's  shuttle,  figures  moved  from  one 
tangle  of  threads  to  another,  setting  all  straight 
as  they  went.  Swiftly  then  the  colour  came, 
green  upon  the  black,  with  the  neutral  earth 


Ube 

Coming  of 
Spring 


308 


flDaster  of  tbe 


filling  the  background,  gradually  to  be  covered 
save  for  the  long  regular  lines  that  stretched 
from  East  to  West,  from  North  to  South. 

All  the  beauty  of  Spring  and  Summer  went 
to  the  making  of  the  tapestry:  the  first  robin's 
cheery  call,  the  shimmer  of  blue  wings  speeding 
across  it,  the  golden  glow  from  an  oriole's 
breast,  and  the  silver  rain  of  melody  dripping 
from  the  throat  of  a  meadow-lark  as  he  swept 
through  the  infinite  spaces  above. 

Up  into  the  threads  came  the  thousand 
stored  sweetnesses  of  the  earth,  aspiring  surely 
upward  through  devious,  winding  ways.  The 
softness  of  leaves  that  had  gone  back  to  dust, 
the  wine  from  fallen  grapes  that  had  dripped 
through  the  sand  into  the  dark  storehouse 
beneath,  were  only  to  be  taken  up  again,  for 
sap  or  fibre  or  bloom. 

Blown  perfumes  came  from  distant  orchards, 
mysteriously  to  become  a  part  of  the  tapestry. 
Purple  dawns  and  prismatic  sunsets,  crystalline 
noons  and  starry  midnights  slowly  but  surely 
were  woven  in.  The  new  leaves  shone  afar, 
surrounding  the  vineyard  with  a  faint,  irides 
cent  sheen  through  which  tiny  wings  moved 
ceaselessly  with  a  far-off,  sleepy  sound. 

Weary  winds  came  to  the  vineyard,  and, 
for  the  moment,  lay  at  peace  upon  the  web, 
drinking  the  exquisite  fragrance  of  leaf  and 
blossom.  Then,  rising  slowly,  as  though  still 
intoxicated  with  that  more  than  mortal  sweet- 


TTbe  Meavfno  of  tbe  TTapestrp 


ness,  they  bore  it  afar  to  the  four  corners  of 
the  earth.  Some  of  it  sank  into  the  valley, 
and  the  river  turned  in  its  sleep  to  dimple  with 
smiles,  ripple  with  silvery  laughter,  and  drop 
to  sleep  again.  The  scent  of  it  rose  to  the 
hills,  like  heavenly  incense  from  earthly  altars, 
and  the  Little  People  in  feathers  and  fur 
breathed  deeply  of  it  and  were  glad. 

Wild  bees  hummed  through  the  web,  and 
left  it,  heavy  laden  with  the  sweet  essence 
distilled  from  the  dust  by  the  subtle  chemistry 
of  sun  and  rain.  And  the  Weaver  only  smiled 
at  the  golden-winged  army  of  plunderers,  for 
secretly  they  ministered  unto  the  vineyard  in 
ways  of  love. 

Then  the  Weaver  paused  to  rest,  for  the  pat 
tern  was  made  and  there  was  only  the  colour 
to  be  put  in.  The  fragrance  died,  the  blossoms 
fell,  and  the  miracle  of  the  tapestry  began. 
Where  there  had  been  scent,  came  substance; 
where  there  had  been  promise,  came  fulfilment. 

With  a  single  mighty  impulse  the  vines  took 
deep  hold  of  the  treasure  in  the  storehouse 
beneath,  spending  it  prodigally  for  sap  to  be 
poured  into  these  waiting  goblets  of  emerald 
and  pearl.  All  the  hoarded  strength  of 
leaf  and  tendril  was  caught  up  by  the  cur 
rent,  and  swept  blindly  onward  to  its  fruitful 
destiny. 

And  so  the  first  faint  hints  of  purple  came 
into  the  tapestry,  to  spread  and  deepen  and 


3io 


toaster  of  tbe  tflineparfc 


divide  and  spread  again  until,  in  certain  lights, 
the  vineyard  lay  transfigured  in  an  amethystine 
glow. 

Shaded  by  the  leaves  that  had  begun  to 
wither,  held  by  tendrils  that  were  strained 
until  they  could  hold  no  more,  the  purple 
chalices  swung  lazily  in  the  golden  light,  slowly 
filling  with  the  garnered  sweetness  that  every 
moment  brought.  Night  and  day  the  alchemy 
went  on — dust  and  sun  and  dreaming,  dust 
and  moon  and  dreaming,  while  the  Weaver 
waited,  dreaming  too,  until  the  web  should  be 
complete. 

When  the  signal  was  given  for  the  tapestry 
to  be  taken  from  the  loom,  the  Weaver  crept 
away,  for  he  could  do  no  more.  Figures 
thronged  upon  the  hillside,  gaily  coloured 
garments  appeared  here  and  there  in  the  web, 
and  a  medley  of  soft  foreign  voices  rose  where 
for  long  there  had  been  no  sound. 

From  side  to  side  of  the  web  the  workers 
moved,  always  bearing  armfuls  of  purple,  to 
the  frame  of  pines  and  beyond  it.  And  so  the 
tapestry  faded,  day  by  day,  and  the  vines 
died,  and  great  bare  spaces  were  left  upon  the 
background  where  the  neutral  earth  showed 
through. 

Steadily  among  them  moved  one  stately 
figure — a  tall  young  man  with  big  brown  eyes 
and  a  boyish  mouth.  From  early  morning 
until  dusk  his  voice  could  be  heard,  issuing 


ot  tbe  Uapestrs 


directions,  hurrying  the  laggards,  and  bidding 
others  to  go  back  and  work  more  slowly. 

Creaking  through  the  valley,  on  the  tawny 
road  that  lay  below  the  tapestry,  went,  each 
night,  waggons  heavily  laden  with  baskets 
packed  into  crates.  Far  beyond  the  frame 
of  pines  was  a  small  group  of  houses,  whither 
the  workers  went  with  their  armfuls  of  purple, 
returning  presently  to  despoil  the  hillside 
further. 

At  dusk,  when  the  day's  work  was  over, 
the  smoke  of  camp-fires  rose  against  the  after 
glow,  and  brooded  over  the  vineyard  in  a 
faint  haze  like  its  lost  bloom.  The  scent  of 
grapes  mingled  with  the  pungent  odour  of 
burning  pine,  and  broken  chalices  upon  the 
ground  were  trod  into  purple  stains,  as  of 
blood.  Tales  of  love  and  war  went  from 
camp-fire  to  camp-fire,  and  fabulous  stories 
were  told  of  the  yield  of  other  vineyards  in 
the  same  valley. 

Finally  the  last  grapes  were  gathered,  the 
last  baskets  packed  and  crated,  and  along  the 
road  the  laden  waggons  creaked  for  the  last 
time.  Then  the  young  man  gave  a  great  feast 
for  the  workers,  lasting  from  noon  until 
midnight,  with  pitchers  of  cider,  great  loaves 
of  freshly  baked  bread  and  cake,  roasted  fowls, 
hot  baked  potatoes,  and  pink  hams,  crusted 
with  crumbs  and  cloves  and  sugar,  that  fell 
into  flakes  at  the  touch  of  the  knife. 


312 


ot  tbe 


Cbc  Veil 

of 
Beauty 


The  same  waggons  that  had  carried  the  grapes 
now  took  the  workers  to  the  train.  The  young 
man  who  had  paid  them  their  wages  accom 
panied  them,  and,  at  the  station,  there  was  a 
great  medley  of  farewells  spoken  in  five  or  six 
different  tongues.  When  the  last  shriek  of 
the  engine  had  died  away  and  the  roar  of  the 
train  was  lost  in  the  distance,  the  young  man 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  and  went  home. 

A  deadly  silence  reigned  upon  the  hillside 
where  the  torn  web  lay,  its  bloom  and  beauty 
all  gone.  Ragged  bits  of  green,  mingled  with 
dull  brown  tracery  of  vine  and  tendril,  lay 
back  upon  the  background  of  earth,  but  of 
purple  there  was  no  trace.  In  the  hush  of 
the  night,  the  Weaver  came  back,  to  muse  sadly 
over  what  had  been  and,  perhaps,  to  dream  of 
what  yet  might  be. 

There  was  chance  of  no  more  weaving,  for  the 
threads  were  broken  and  the  time  was  short, 
but  the  rack  and  ruin  were  pitiful  to  see.  So, 
from  hidden  places  no  man  may  guess,  the 
Weaver  summoned  the  Secret  Spinners,  bid 
ding  them  lay  a  veil  upon  the  vineyard. 

Swiftly  there  came  forth  a  miracle  of  beauty. 
Fairy  lace  and  impalpable  mysteries  of  chiffon 
were  laid  upon  the  hillside,  spreading  from 
vine  to  vine.  Sometimes  a  single  slender 
thread,  impearled  with  dewdrops,  bridged  the 
distance  from  one  tendril  to  another,  again  a 
bit  of  cobweb  was  spread  over  a  dead  leaf, 


ZIbe  leaving  of  tbe  Uapestrs 


to  catch  a  hint  of  iridescence  from  the  sun  or 
moon ;  and  now  and  then  a  shimmering  length 
of  ghostly  fabric  was  set  in  place  at  dusk,  to 
hold  the  starry  lights  that  came  to  shine 
upon  the  broken  tapestry  with  the  peace  of 
benediction. 

Along  the  well-trodden  ways  Alden  went, 
tired,  but  content,  having  come  at  last  to  the 
knowledge  of  himself.  Already  he  was  plan 
ning  to  enlarge  the  vineyard  next  year,  and 
to  try  another  variety  of  grapes  upon  the  new 
ground.  He  considered  one  plan  to  hurry  the 
packing,  another  to  hasten  the  crop,  and 
studied  the  problem  of  housing  the  workers 
from  their  standpoint,  not  from  his. 

For  the  first  time  he  was  thinking  of  his 
work  as  something  other  than  a  necessary 
evil.  It  had  become,  in  a  sense,  a  means  of 
grace,  for  he  had  discovered  that  the  spirit 
in  which  one  earns  his  daily  bread  means  as 
much  to  his  soul  as  the  bread  itself  may  mean 
to  his  body. 

The  light  from  the  low  reading-lamp  lay 
softly  upon  Madame's  silvered  hair,  as  she 
bent  over  her  bit  of  fancy  work,  silent,  as 
usual,  since  the  spell  of  Edith's  presence  had 
come  into  the  house.  Alden  was  not  even 
pretending  to  read  the  paper — he  sat  staring 
into  the  shadows  before  him  at  Edith's  empty 
chair,  but,  as  he  looked,  he  smiled. 


314 


flbaster  of  tbe  Dfnegarb 


Ube  ©oal 
IRcacbefc 


With  a  little  lump  in  her  throat  Madame 
bent  over  her  work  again,  having  looked  up  to 
thread  her  needle,  and  having  seen  his  face. 
For  a  moment  she  waited,  hoping  for  a  con 
fidence,  but  there  was  none. 

Alden  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and 
tossed  it  into  her  lap.  It  announced  the  sale 
of  the  crop  at  a  larger  price  than  ever  before, 
and  requested  the  first  chance  upon  the  yield 
of  the  following  year. 

Madame  folded  it  up  and  gave  it  back  to 
him,  then  their  eyes  met. 

Young  and  strong  and  hopeful,  radiating 
the  consciousness  of  good  work  well  done,  her 
son  smiled  back  at  her.  Her  face  illumined 
with  joy. 

"Master  of  the  vineyard  at  last,  my  son?" 
she  said. 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  bent  over,  and  kissed 
her  fondly.  "Yes,  Mother,  thanks  to  you— 
and  Edith."  Then  he  added,  after  a  pause: 
"Master  of  myself,  too." 


315 


XXII 

lEacb  to  Ibis  ©wn  TOorfc 

HEART'S  DEAREST: 
It  was  two  months  ago  to-day  that  you 
went  away,  and  to  me  it  has  been  eternity. 
Every  day  and  every  hour  I  think  of  you,  some 
times  with  such  intense  longing  that  it  seems 
as  though  the  air  before  me  must  take  shape 
and  yield  you  to  my  arms. 

"I  have  been  working  hard,  and — no,  I 
will  not  say  'trying  to  forget,'  since  memory, 
upon  the  dull  background  of  my  commonplace 
existence  has  set  one  great  blazing  star.  I 
would  not,  if  I  could  choose,  go  back  to  one 
hour  that  did  not  hold  you,  but  rather  would  I 
pray  for  Time  to  stand  still  for  us  at  any  one 
of  his  jewelled  moments  upon  the  dial,  when 
you  and  I  were  heart  to  heart. 

"Mysteriously  you  have  made  everything 
right  for  me,  denied  all  things  though  we  are. 
After  ten  years  of  struggle  with  the  vineyard, 
with  several  conspicuous  failures  and  now  and 
then  a  half-hearted  success,  I  have  at  last 
rejoiced  Mother's  heart — and  my  own  as  well— 


Bl&en 

TOritcs  to 
E&itb 


316 


jflDaster  of  tbe 


with  the  largest  crop  within  my  memory  or 
hers.  The  fruit,  too,  has  been  finer  than  ever 
before. 

"The  school,  also,  which  I  have  hated  ever 
since  I  had  it,  begins  to  appear  before  me  in  a 
new  light.  It  is  not  only  those  dull  and  stupid 
children  who  are  to  learn  lessons  in  that  one- 
roomed  schoolhouse  —  it  is  I.  While  they 
struggle  with  the  alphabet  and  multiplication- 
table  and  the  spelling  of  words  in  four  syllables, 
their  teacher  has  before  him  invaluable  oppor 
tunities  to  acquire  patience,  self-control,  and  a 
sense  of  justice,  if  not  to  inspire  affection. 

"Before,  I  went  my  way  in  sullen  discon 
tent.  Because  I  could  not  do  the  things  I 
wanted  to  do,  I  disdained  the  humble  tasks 
assigned  me,  forgetting  that  in  the  great 
scheme  of  things  each  one  of  us  has  his  work. 
Some  of  us  must  scrub  floors,  others  carry 
bricks  or  mortar,  and  others  must  grow  grapes 
and  teach  school. 

"  I  had  thought,  in  my  blindness,  that  the 
great  things  were  the  easiest  to  do,  but  now  I 
see  that  drudgery  is  an  inseparable  part  of 
everything  worth  while,  and  the  more  worth 
while  it  is,  the  more  drudgery  is  involved. 

"In  years  gone  by  I  have  given  time  to  the 
vineyard,  but  nothing  at  all  of  myself.  I 
held  myself  aloof  and  apart  while  Duty,  like  a 
stern  taskmaster,  urged  me  to  the  things  I 
hated,  merely  to  please  Mother,  who  had  done 


Eacb  to  Ibis  ©wn  TKHorfe 


317 


so  much  for  me  that  she  had  the  right  to 
demand  this. 

"This  year  I  have  put  my  heart  into  my 
work.  When  failure  seemed  imminent,  I 
have  laboured  with  fresh  courage.  I  have 
remembered,  too,  that  the  tools  with  which  I 
worked  were  human  beings  like  myself,  and 
not  so  many  mere  machines. 

"My  love  for  you  has  been  the  magic  key 
that  has  unlocked  the  doors  dividing  me  from 
my  fellow-men.  No  longer  isolated,  no  longer 
apart,  I  am  one  of  a  brotherhood  that  claims 
fellowship  with  all  humanity.  One  blood  flows 
uninterruptedly  through  us  all,  one  heart 
beats  in  us  all,  and,  truly  seen,  we  are  not 
separate  individuals,  but  only  component 
parts  of  the  Greater  Self. 

"Once  I  was  absorbed  in  myself.  Now  I 
yearn  unspeakably  toward  all  with  whom 
I  come  in  contact.  I  see  a  thousand  ways  in 
which  I  may  be  kind.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
preach  the  gospel  of  love  and  understanding, 
but  to  live  it,  and,  in  living  it,  either  to  lead  or 
to  follow,  as  may  be  right  and  best. 

"  Hitherto  I  have  kept  away  from  the 
workers  in  the  vineyard  as  much  as  I  possibly 
could.  Some  of  them  have  come  for  five 
years  in  succession,  and  I  neither  remembered 
their  faces  nor  knew  their  names.  Now,  not 
because  I  felt  that  it  was  my  duty,  but  be 
cause  I  really  wanted  to,  I  have  tried  to  come  a 


t\o  longer 
Bpart 


/IDaster  of  tbe  Dineparfc 


little  closer,  to  see  into  their  lives  as  best  I 
ibumbie      might> 

Uoilcra  ° 

"I  have  seen  before  me  such  dramas  of 
suffering  and  love  as  have  made  me  ashamed, 
more  than  once,  of  my  own  worthless  life  and 
my  own  vain  repinings.  These  humble  toilers 
in  my  vineyard  had  come  nearer  the  truth  of 
things  than  I  had,  and  were  happier.  Night 
after  night  I  have  been  glad  of  the  shelter  of 
the  darkness  and  have  moved  back  out  of  the 
circle  of  light  made  by  the  camp-fire,  that  none 
of  them  might  see  my  face. 

"One  woman,  too  weak  and  ill  to  work, 
would  lie  down  among  the  vines  to  rest,  while 
her  husband  filled  her  basket  from  his  own. 
They  needed  money  for  a  crippled  child  who 
could  be  made  right  by  an  expensive  operation. 
One  night  I  saw  a  lantern  moving  back  and 
forth  among  the  vines,  and  when  I  went  out  to 
investigate,  the  man  was  hard  at  work,  filling 
basket  after  basket,  because  he  knew  that  it 
was  not  right  to  draw  two  people's  pay  without 
doing  two  people's  work. 

"  He  had  done  this  every  night,  and  some 
times,  too,  the  woman  had  spent  her  limited 
strength  labouring  beside  him.  Both  were 
nearly  heartbroken,  having  figured  up  that,  at 
the  rate  the  work  was  being  done,  they  would 
still  be  twenty  dollars  short  of  the  desired  sum. 
So  I  gave  them  this,  and  they  are  to  return  it 
when  they  can.  If  it  is  not  possible  to  return 


j£acb  to  l)fs  ©wn 


it  earlier,  they  are  to  come  next  year  and  work 
it  out.  I  have  no  fear  that  they  will  not  come, 
but,  even  should  they  fail  me,  I  would  rather 
lose  the  money  and  have  my  trust  betrayed, 
than  to  miss  a  chance  of  helping  where  I  might. 

"One  man  had  been  saving  for  years  that 
he  might  send  to  Italy  for  his  wife  and  children. 
His  earnings  would  give  him  a  little  more  than 
the  amount  he  needed,  and  he  was  counting 
the  days  until  he  could  put  his  plan  into  execu 
tion.  He  could  neither  read  nor  write,  so, 
one  night,  by  the  camp-fire,  I  wrote  his  letter 
for  him,  in  my  best  schoolmaster's  hand,  for 
the  first  time  finding  my  scanty  knowledge 
of  Italian  of  some  real  use. 

"We  have  always  given  them  a  feast  when 
the  work  was  over,  and  sent  some  trifling 
presents  to  the  wives  and  children  who  had 
remained  behind.  This  was  for  our  own 
sake,  however,  and  not  in  any  sense  for  theirs. 
It  has  been  hard  to  get  people  to  come,  and 
we  wanted  to  offer  inducements. 

"This  time  I  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table 
myself.  We  had  songs  and  stories  and  much 
good  cheer.  Afterward,  when  I  said  good 
night,  they  all  came  to  shake  hands  with  me 
and  say  'Thank  you.'  It  was  the  first  time. 

"One  man  who  lives  in  a  crowded  district 
in  the  city,  has  a  wife  who  has  tuberculosis. 
The  remainder  of  the  family  consists  of  a 
daughter  of  fourteen  and  a  boy  of  nine.  He 


320 


flDaster  of  tbe 


passing 

On 


is  to  come  back  and  bring  them  with  him. 
They  are  to  have  the  best  of  the  workers' 
houses,  on  the  pine  hill  above  the  vineyard. 
On  a  cot,  in  the  clean  cold  air,  the  mother  will 
get  well  again  if  it  is  possible  for  her  to  get  well. 
I  have  work  enough  around  the  place  for  the 
man,  the  boy  can  go  to  school,  and  the  Lady 
Mother  will  train  the  daughter  in  the  ways  of 
housewifery.  In  the  evenings  I  shall  teach 
her  to  read  and  write. 

"We  have  swept  our  attic  clean  of  things  we 
had  stored  away.  We  have  given  not  only 
what  we  do  not  need,  but  what  we  can  do 
without.  This  winter,  when  the  North  wind 
howls  down  the  chimney,  while  I  am  sheltered 
and  warm,  it  will  afford  me  satisfaction  to  know 
that  my  useless  garments  are,  at  last,  doing 
good  service  somewhere. 

"Mother,  too,  has  caught  the  spirit  of  it. 
I  cannot  tell  you  of  the  countless  things  she 
has  sent  away — bedding,  clothes,  shoes,  furni 
ture,  food — everything.  I  do  not  know  why 
the  workers'  shacks  around  the  vineyard  should 
remain  idle  practically  all  the  time — there 
must  be  others  in  damp  cellars  in  that  crowded 
city  who  have  become  diseased,  and  who  could 
be  healed  by  the  pure  cold  air  up  among  my 
ancestral  pines.  I  will  see  what  can  be  done. 

"These  people  who  come  to  my  vineyard 
are,  as  it  were,  the  connecting  link  between 
me  and  the  outer  world.  I  had  thought  there 


Eacb  to  f>te  ©wn  TKIlorfc 


was  nothing  for  me  to  do  here,  and  behold, 
there  is  so  much  to  be  done  that  I  scarcely 
know  where  to  begin.  And  this  work  has 
been  at  my  very  door,  as  it  were,  for  ten  years, 
and  I  have  not  seen  it.  Next  year,  I  think 
I  shall  have  a  night  school  for  two  hours 
each  evening  after  work.  Many  of  them  are 
pathetically  eager  to  learn  and  have  no  op 
portunity  to  do  so. 

"The  night  the  workers  all  went  back  to  the 
city,  I  had  a  strange  dream  which  now  seems 
significant.  I  thought  I  was  in  a  great  factory, 
somewhere,  that  was  given  over  to  the  weaving 
of  cloth.  It  was  well  equipped,  there  were 
innumerable  orders  waiting  to  be  filled,  and 
there  were  plenty  of  people  to  work,  but 
nothing  was  being  done. 

"The  floor  was  covered  with  rubbish,  the 
windows  were  thick  with  dust  and  cobwebs; 
where  there  were  artificial  lights  they  were 
flickering  disagreeably  because  they  were 
choked  with  dirt;  the  machinery  creaked 
abominably,  and  the  air  of  the  place  was  foul 
beyond  description.  Meanwhile  orders  accu 
mulated,  but  the  people  stood  around  and 
complained.  Some  of  them  were  gathered  in 
groups,  arguing;  others  sat  on  dusty  benches, 
singly  or  by  twos,  with  discontented,  unhappy 
faces.  Some  were  angry,  and  others  only 
hopeless,  staring  straight  ahead,  with  eyes 
that  did  not  see. 


322 


jflDaster  of  tbe 


"Wo  One 

Satisfied 


"It  seemed  that  no  one  was  satisfied  with 
his  lot,  and  each  was  eager  to  change  with 
someone  else,  who  also  wanted  to  change,  but 
not  with  him.  The  women  whose  duty  it  was 
to  scrub  floors  wanted  to  work  at  the  looms, 
but  those  at  the  looms  aspired  to  the  big  airy 
room  where  the  bolts  of  cloth  were  measured 
and  rolled  up. 

"The  men  who  had  been  told  to  wash 
windows  wanted  to  make  patterns,  the  man  in 
charge  of  the  ventilating  apparatus  wanted  to 
work  in  the  office,  and  the  man  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  office,  weary  and  jaded  beyond  all 
power  of  words  to  portray,  wanted  a  place  at 
the  loom  and  a  pay-envelope  every  Saturday 
night  instead  of  a  commission  upon  his  sales. 

"Those  who  were  supposed  to  weave  blue 
cloth  with  white  dots  upon  it  wanted  to  make 
white  cloth  with  blue  dots  upon  it,  but,  it 
seemed,  there  was  no  market  for  the  white 
cloth  with  the  blue  dots  and  they  could  not  be 
made  to  understand  it. 

"The  boy  who  attended  to  the  door  of  the 
factory  wanted  to  keep  books  in  the  office;  the 
men  who  were  supposed  to  work  in  the  ship 
ping  room  wanted  to  cut  out  the  samples  that 
were  sent  to  different  firms  to  order  from. 
The  girls  who  wrote  letters  and  filed  the  corre 
spondence  wanted  to  draw  designs  for  new 
patterns — oh,  a  great  many  wanted  to  draw 
designs! 


JEacb  to  Ibis  ©wn 


"The  man  who  did  the  designing  was  com 
plaining  of  a  headache,  and  wanted  to  be 
doorkeeper,  that  he  might  have  plenty  of 
fresh  air.  The  man  who  was  supposed  to  oil 
the  machinery  wanted  to  wash  the  windows — 
he  said  it  was  a  cleaner  job;  and  the  messengers 
were  tired  of  going  back  and  forth  all  day— 
they  wanted  to  sit  quietly  and  write  letters. 

"Suddenly  an  imperious  voice  called  out: 
'Each  to  his  own  work!'  They  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  then  obeyed,  and  presently  every 
thing  was  changed.  From  confusion  and 
disorder  it  resolved  itself  into  perfect  har 
mony,  for  each  one  was  doing  his  own  work 
and  doing  it  well. 

"And,  as  they  worked,  the  Spirit  of  Love 
came  among  them  and  the  workers  began  to 
sing  at  their  tasks.  Each  one  did  not  only 
his  own  work  but  helped  his  neighbour  with 
his.  They  became  eager  to  do  all  they  could 
instead  of  as  little  as  they  might  and  still 
escape  censure,  and  the  face  of  each  one  was 
shining  with  joy. 

"When  I  awoke  I  was  saying  aloud:  'Each 
to  his  own  work!'  For  some  time  I  did  not 
know  it  was  only  a  dream,  but  gradually  the 
meaning  of  it  became  clear.  Edith,  did  you 
ever  stop  to  think  that  the  millennium  could 
be  brought  about  in  less  than  one  hour,  if 
each  did  his  own  work  well  and  in  a  spirit  of 
love?  It  is  we  ourselves  who  are  out  of  har- 


324 


jflDaster  ot  tbe 


tbrougb 
Service 


mony,  not  things  as  they  are,  and,  having  once 
attained  harmony,  everything  will  become 
right. 

"And  so,  beloved,  my  love  for  you  has  been 
as  a  great  light  in  my  soul.  I  need  no  more 
than  to  give  it  without  ceasing,  and  to  renew, 
through  human  service,  not  only  my  love 
for  you,  but  the  love  for  all  which  leads  to 
brotherhood. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  that  joy  comes  through 
what  we  give,  not  through  what  we  take;  happi 
ness  through  serving,  not  through  being  served; 
and  peace  through  labour,  not  rest. 

"I  thought,  at  first,  that  I  loved  you,  but  it 
seems  to  have  grown  a  hundred-fold.  No 
barriers  may  divide  us  from  one  another,  nor 
earth  with  all  its  seas  sunder  us  apart,  for 
through  love  has  come  union,  not  only  with 
you  but  the  whole  world. 

"And  so,  good-night  —  heart  of  my  heart, 
life  of  my  life,  and  soul  of  my  soul. 

"A.  M." 


"DEAR  AND  EVER  DEARER: 

"Your  letter  lies  against  my  heart  where 
I  feel  it  with  every  rising  breath.  I,  too, 
have  longed  for  you,  a  thousand  times,  and 
in  a  thousand  ways. 

"Always  as  the  tide  of  the  night  turns,  I 
wake  and  think  of  you.  When  through  the 
darkness  comes  no  response,  I  smile  to  myself, 


JEacb  to  1>te  ©wn  ZKIlorfe 


325 


knowing  you  are  asleep,  then  I  sleep  also.  But 
sometimes,  in  an  instant,  the  darkness  becomes 
alive  and  throbs  with  eager  messages,  as  love 
surges  from  my  heart  to  yours  and  from  yours 
to  mine. 

"I,  too,  have  come  into  the  way  of  service,  of 
brotherhood.  It  may  seem  a  strange  thing  to 
write,  or  even  to  say,  but  you,  who  have  never 
failed  to  understand  me,  will  understand  this. 
I  never  cared  so  much  for  my  husband  as  I  do 
now;  I  was  never  less  conscious  of  myself, 
never  more  eager  to  ask  nothing  and  give  all. 
And,  through  this  change  in  me  has  come  about 
a  change  in  him.  Instead  of  each  of  us  self 
ishly  demanding  what  we  conceive  to  be 
our  'rights,'  each  strives  unselfishly  to  please 
the  other — to  see  who  can  give  the  most. 

"You  have  taken  nothing  away  that  belongs 
to  anyone  else,  dear — the  love  I  bear  you  is 
yours  alone,  but,  through  it,  I  have  some  way 
more  to  give;  he  is  the  richer,  because  of  you. 

"Like  you,  I  have  seen  before  me  a  multi 
tude  of  openings,  all  leading,  through  ways  of 
self-sacrifice,  to  the  sure  finding  of  one's  self. 
The  more  love  you  give,  the  more  you  have; 
it  is,  in  a  way,  like  the  old  legend  of  the  man 
who  found  he  could  take  to  Heaven  with  him 
only  those  things  which  he  had  given  away. 

"All  around  me  1  see  the  pitiful  mistakes 
that  masquerade  as  marriage — women  who 
have  no  virtues  save  one  tied  like  millstones 


Zbc  ©pen 
Boor 


326 


flDaster  of  tbe 


H  plea 
foe 


to  some  of  earth's  noblemen;  great-hearted 
and  great-souled  women  mated  with  clods. 
I  see  people  insanely  jealous  of  one  another, 
suspicious,  fault-finding,  malicious;  covertly 
sending  barbed  shafts  to  one  another  through 
the  medium  of  general  conversation.  As  if 
love  were  ever  to  be  held  captive,  or  be  won  by 
cords  and  chains!  As  if  the  freest  thing  on 
earth  would  for  a  moment  enter  into  bondage, 
or  minister  unto  selfishness  when  it  is,  of 
itself,  unselfishness!  Passion-slaved  and  self- 
bound,  they  never  see  beyond  their  own  hori 
zon,  nor  guess  that  the  great  truths  of  life 
and  love  lie  just  beyond  their  reach. 

"Looking  back,  I  can  see  one  thing  that 
you  may  have  missed.  This  love  of  ours  has 
brought  joy  to  you  and  to  me,  and,  indirectly, 
happiness  to  my  husband.  It  has  not  affected 
your  mother,  one  way  or  another,  but  it  has 
hurt  Rosemary — taken  away  from  her  the  one 
thing  that  made  her  sordid  life  worth  while. 

"Dear,  can't  you  see  your  way  clear  to  make 
it  right  with  her — to  give  back  at  least  as 
much  as  she  had  before  I  came  into  your  life? 
You  will  take  nothing  from  me  by  doing  so, 
for  my  place  with  you  is  secure  and  beyond  the 
reach  of  change,  as  you  know  yours  is  with 
me. 

"But,  just  because  the  full  moon  has  risen 
upon  midnight,  shall  we  refuse  to  look  at  the 
stars?  Believe  me,  all  the  lesser  loves  have 


i£acb  to  UMs  ©wn  Mori? 


their  rightful  place,  which  should  be  more 
definitely  assured  because  of  the  greater  light. 

"1  am  pleading  not  only  for  her,  but  for 
you.  Tell  her  everything,  if  you  choose,  or  if 
you  feel  that  you  must  in  order  to  be  honest. 
I  am  sure  you  can  make  her  understand. 

"The  door  of  the  House  of  Life  is  open  for 
you  and  for  me,  but  it  is  closed  against  her. 
It  is  in  your  power  at  least  to  set  it  ajar  for 
her;  to  admit  her,  too,  into  full  fellowship 
through  striving  and  through  love. 

"She  will  help  you  with  your  vineyard 
people,  and,  perhaps,  come  to  peace  that  way. 
Her  unhappy  face  as  I  saw  it  last  haunts  me— 
I  cannot  help  feeling  that  I  .am  in  some  way 
responsible.  She  needs  you  and  what  you  can 
give  her,  more,  perhaps,  than  I,  who  shall 
never  have  it  again. 

"Never!  The  word,  as  I  write  it,  tolls 
through  my  consciousness  like  a  funeral  knell. 
Never  to  see  your  face  again,  or  to  touch  your 
hand,  or  to  hear  you  say  you  love  me.  Never 
to  feel  your  arms  holding  me  close,  your  heart 
beating  against  mine,  never  to  thrill  with 
ecstasy  in  every  fibre  of  me  in  answer  to  your 
kiss. 

"Only  the  silence,  broken,  perhaps,  by  an 
occasional  letter,  and  the  call  in  the  night, 
bridging  the  darkness  and  distance  between 
us,  to  be  answered  for  one  little  hour  by  love, 
surging  from  one  to  the  other  and  back  again. 


328 


/IDaster  of  tbe 


Cauabt  in 
alUeb 


"And  yet  these  thoughts  of  ours  are  as 
a  weaver's  shuttle,  plying  endlessly  through 
the  web  of  night  and  space  and  time.  One 
thought  may  make  a  slender  thread,  indeed, 
but  what  of  the  countless  thoughts  that  fly 
back  and  forth,  weaving  and  interweaving 
as  they  go?  Shall  they  not  make  first  a 
thread,  and  then  a  cord,  then  a  web,  and  then 
a  fabric,  until,  at  last,  there  is  no  separation, 
but  that  of  the  body,  which  counts  for 
naught? 

"Dear  Heart,  you  mean  so  much  to  me,  are 
so  much.  From  you  and  from  your  love  for 
me  I  take  fresh  courage  every  day.  From  your 
strength  I  make  sure  of  my  own  strength,  from 
your  tenderness  I  gather  compassion,  and  from 
your  steadfastness  I  gain  the  hope  that  leads 
me  onward,  the  belief  that  enables  me  to  face 
each  day  bravely  and  with  a  smile. 

"Deep  in  my  heart,  I  hold  fast  to  one  great 
joy.  Sometimes  I  close  the  door  quickly  upon 
it  and  bar  up  the  passage,  lest  anyone  should 
guess  that  there,  within  a  bare  white  chamber, 
is  erected  the  high  altar  of  my  soul,  where  the 
lights  shine  far  into  the  shadows,  in  spite  of 
rock-hewn  portals,  closed  and  barred. 

"The  knowledge  of  your  love  I  have  with 
me  always,  to  steady  me,  to  guide  me,  to 
uplift  me,  to  make  even  a  grave  warm  and 
sweet.  And  to  you,  with  my  own  hands,  I 
have  brought  the  divine  fire  that  shall  not 


Bacb  to  Dis  ©wn  THIlorfe 


329 


fail,  so  what  more  need  we  ask  of  God,  save 
that  somewhere,  sometime,  in  His  infinite 
compassion,  we  may  be  together,  even  though 
it  may  be  in  the  House  not  Made  with 
Hands? 

"Remember  that  I  long  for  you,  dream  of 
you,  hope  for  you,  believe  in  you,  pray  for  you, 
and,  above  all  else,  love  you,  love  you — love 
you.  And  in  all  the  ways  of  Heaven  and  for 
always,  I  am  thine. 

"E." 


Etftb  to 
Bften 


330 


XXIII 


©n  the 

Dills  b? 

tbe 

Uinevart* 


:Betrotbal 

PXESOLATION  lay  upon  the  vineyard.  The 
1— )  fairy  lace  had  been  rudely  torn  aside 
by  invading  storms  and  the  Secret  Spinners  had 
entered  upon  their  long  sleep.  The  dead 
leaves  rustled  back  and  forth,  shivering  with 
the  cold,  when  the  winds  came  down  upon  the 
river  from  the  hill.  Caught,  now  and  then, 
upon  some  whirling  gust,  the  leaves  were 
blown  to  the  surface  of  the  river  itself,  and, 
like  scuttled  craft,  swept  hastily  to  ports 
unknown. 

Rosemary  escaped  from  the  house  early  in 
the  afternoon.  Unable  to  go  to  the  Hill  of 
the  Muses,  or  up  the  river-road,  she  had  taken 
a  long,  roundabout  path  around  the  outskirts 
of  the  village  and  so  reached  the  hills  back 
of  the  vineyard.  The  air  of  the  valley  seemed 
to  suffocate  her;  she  longed  to  climb  to  the 
silent  places,  where  the  four  winds  of  heaven 
kept  tryst. 

She  was  alone,  as  always.  She  sighed  as  she 
remembered  how  lonely  she  had  been  all  her 


Betrotbal 


life.  Except  Alden,  there  had  never  been 
anyone  to  whom  she  could  talk  freely.  Even 
at  school,  the  other  children  had,  by  com 
mon  consent,  avoided  the  solitary,  silent 
child  who  sat  apart,  always,  in  brown  ging 
ham  or  brown  alpaca,  and  taking  refuge  in 
the  fierce  pride  that  often  shields  an  abnormal 
sensitiveness. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  cold,  damp  earth 
and  leaned  against  a  tree,  wondering  if  it 
would  not  be  possible  for  her  to  take  cold  and 
die.  In  the  books,  people  died  when  they 
wanted  to,  or,  what  was  more  to  the  point, 
when  other  people  wanted  them  to.  It  was 
wonderful,  when  you  came  to  think  of  it, 
how  Death  invariably  aided  Art. 

But,  in  real  life,  things  were  pitifully  differ 
ent.  People  who  ought  not  to  die  did  so,  and 
those  who  could  well  be  spared  clung  to  mortal 
existence  as  though  they  had  drunk  deeply  of 
the  fabled  fountain  of  immortal  youth. 

Descending  to  personalities,  Rosemary  re 
flected  upon  the  ironical  Fate  that  had  taken 
her  father  and  mother  away  from  her,  and 
spared  Grandmother  and  Aunt  Matilda.  Or, 
if  she  could  have  gone  with  her  father  and 
mother,  it  would  have  been  all  right — Rose 
mary  had  no  deep  longing  for  life  considered 
simply  as  existence.  Bitterness  and  the  pas 
sion  of  revolt  swayed  her  for  the  moment, 
though  she  knew  that  the  mood  would  pass, 


332  flDaster  of  tbe  IDfnegarfc 

as  it  always  did,  when  she  took  her  soul  into 

•  ,,,.,, 

the  sanctuary  of  the  hills. 

Dispassionately  she  observed  her  feet, 
stretched  out  in  front  of  her,  and  compared 
them  with  Mrs.  Lee's.  Rosemary's  shoes  were 
heavy  and  coarse,  they  had  low,  broad  heels 
and  had  been  patched  and  mended  until  the 
village  cobbler  had  proclaimed  himself  at  the 
end  of  his  resources.  Once  or  twice  she  had 
said,  half-fearfully,  that  she  needed  new  shoes, 
but  Grandmother  had  not  seemed  to  hear. 

Father  had  meant  for  her  to  have  everything 
she  wanted — he  had  said  so,  in  the  letter  which 
at  that  moment  lay  against  Rosemary's  bitter 
young  heart.  He  would  have  given  her  a  pair 
of  slippers  like  those  Mrs.  Lee  had  worn  the 
day  she  went  there  to  tea — black  satin,  with 
high  heels  and  thin  soles,  cunningly  embroid 
ered  with  tiny  steel  beads.  How  small  and 
soft  the  foot  had  seemed  above  the  slipper; 
how  subtly  the  flesh  had  gleamed  through  the 
fine  black  silk  stocking! 

She  wondered  whether  father  knew.  No, 
probably  not,  for  if  he  did,  he  would  find  some 
way  to  come  and  have  it  out  with  Grandmother 
— she  was  sure  of  that.  God  knew,  of  course- 
God  knew  everything,  but  why  had  He  allowed 
Grandmother  to  do  it?  It  was  an  inscrutable 
mystery  to  her  that  a  Being  with  infinite 
power  should  allow  things  to  go  wrong. 

For  the  moment  Rosemary's  faith  wavered, 


JSetrotbal 


then  re-asserted  itself.  It  was  she  who  did 
not  understand:  the  ways  of  the  Everlasting 
were  not  her  ways,  and,  moreover,  they  were 
beyond  her  finite  comprehension.  If  she 
waited,  and  trusted,  and  meanwhile  did  the 
best  she  could,  everything  would  be  right 
somewhere,  sometime.  That  must  be  what 
Heaven  was,  a  place  where  things  were  always 
right  for  everybody. 

Gradually  her  resentment  passed  away. 
The  impassioned  yearning  for  life,  in  all  its 
fulness,  that  once  had  shaken  her  to  the  depths 
of  her  soul,  had  ceased  to  trouble  or  to  beckon. 
It  had  become  merely  a  question  of  getting 
through  with  this  as  creditably  and  easily 
as  she  might,  and  passing  on  to  the  next, 
whatever  that  might  prove  to  be. 

The  ground  upon  which  she  sat  was  cold 
and  damp.  Rosemary  shivered  a  little  and 
was  glad.  Release  might  come  in  that  way, 
though  she  doubted  it.  She  was  too  hopelessly 
healthy  ever  to  take  cold,  and  in  all  her 
five  and  twenty  years  had  never  had  a  day's 
illness. 

A  step  beside  her  startled  her  and  a  kindly 
voice  said:  "Why,  Rosemary!  You'll  take 
cold!" 

Crimson  with  embarrassment  she  sprang  to 
her  feet,  shaking  the  soil  from  her  skirts. 
"I — I  didn't  hear  you  coming,"  she  stam 
mered.  "I  must  go." 


334 


faster  of  tbe 


"Please  don't,"  Alden  responded.  "Re 
member  how  long  it  is  since  I  've  seen  you. 
How  did  you  happen  to  come  up  here?" 

"Because — oh,  I  don't  know!  I  've  come 
sometimes  to  see  the  vineyard.  I  've — I  've 
liked  to  watch  the  people  at  work,"  she  con 
cluded,  lamely.  "  I  see  so  few  people,  you 
know." 

Alden's  face  softened  with  vague  tenderness. 
"Was  it  just  this  last  Summer  you've  been 
coming,  or  has  it  been  all  along  ?" 

"I  've  always  come — ever  since  I  was  big 
enough  to  climb  the  hill.  I — I  used  to  steal 
grapes  sometimes,"  she  confessed,  "before 
I  knew  it  was  wrong." 

"You  can  have  all  the  grapes  you  want," 
he  laughed.  "  I  '11  send  you  a  basket  every 
day,  if  you  want  them,  as  long  as  the  season 
lasts.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  before  ?" 

"I — I  never  thought,"  she  answered.  She 
might  have  added  that  she  was  not  accustomed 
to  the  idea  of  any  sort  of  gift,  but  she  did  not 
put  the  thought  into  words. 

"Come  over  here,  Rosemary.  I  want  to 
show  you  something — tell  you  about  some  new 
plans  of  mine." 

He  led  her  to  the  group  of  workers'  houses 
back  of  the  pines.  A  great  deal  of  repairing 
had  been  done  and  every  house  was  habitable, 
if  not  actually  comfortable.  They  had  all 
been  furnished  with  quiet  good  taste,  and  had 


3Betrotbal 


been  freshly  whitewashed,  both  inside  and 
out.  There  was  a  great  pile  of  cots  and  a 
stack  of  new  blankets. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Rosemary,  much  inter 
ested. 

"The  Marsh  Tuberculosis  Hospital,"  he 
answered.  His  face  was  beaming. 

"I — I  don't  understand." 

"Don't  you  ?  Well,  it 's  simple  enough. 
If  I  had  n't  been  all  kinds  of  an  idiot  and 
blindly  selfish  I  'd  have  thought  of  it  before. 
One  of  the  men  who  came  to  pick  grapes  this 
year  has  a  wife  at  home  with  tuberculosis. 
All  she  needs  is  to  lie  on  a  cot  outdoors  and 
have  plenty  of  fresh  eggs  and  milk.  He 's 
coming  to-morrow,  with  her,  and  his  two  child 
ren.  The  girl  will  learn  housekeeping  from 
mother  daytimes  and  the  boy  will  go  to  school. 
I  have  room  for  several  others  if  I  can  find 
them,  and  I  have  people  in  town  hunting 
them  up  for  me.  See?" 

"Oh!"  said  Rosemary.  "How  beautiful! 
How  good  you  are!" 

"Not  good,"  said  Alden,  shamefacedly, 
digging  at  the  soil  with  his  heel.  "Merely 
decent — that's  all."  He  took  a  spring  cot 
out  of  the  pile,  spread  a  blanket  upon  it,  and 
invited  Rosemary  to  sit  down. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  she  insisted,  "no  matter 
what  you  say.  How  lovely  it  must  be  to  be 
able  to  do  things  for  people — to  give  them  what 


336 


HDaster  ot  tbe 


Ube  (Blft 
an5  tbe 
©ivcr 


they  need!  Oh,"  she  breathed,  "if  I  could 
only  help!" 

Alden  looked  at  her  keenly.  "You  can, 
Rosemary." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  there's  always  a  way, 
if  one  wants  to  help." 

"I  have  nothing  to  give,"  she  murmured. 
"I  haven't  anything  of  my  own  but  my 
mother's  watch,  and  that  won't  go,  so  it 
would  n't  be  of  any  use  to  anybody." 

"Someone  said  once,"  he  continued,  "that 
'the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare.'  That 
means  that  what  you  give  does  n't  count 
unless  you  also  give  yourself." 

"'To  give  yourself/"  she  repeated;  then,  all 
at  once,  her  face  illumined.  "I  see  now!"  she 
cried.  "I  can  give  myself!  They'll  need 
someone  to  take  care  of  them,  and  I  can  do 
that.  I  can  cook  and  scrub  floors  and  keep 
everything  clean,  and — but  Grandmother 
won't  let  me, "  she  concluded,  sadly. 

A  paragraph  from  Edith's  letter  flashed 
vividly  into  his  memory:  "The  door  of  the 
House  of  Life  is  open  for  you  and  for  me,  but  it 
is  closed  against  her.  It  is  in  your  -power  at 
least  to  set  it  ajar  for  her;  to  admit  her,  too, 
into  full  fellowship,  through  striving  and  through 
love." 

His  heart  yearned  toward  her  unspeak 
ably.  They  belonged  to  one  another  in  ways 


Eetrotbal 

that  Edith  had  no  part  in  and  never  could 
have.  Suddenly,  without  looking  at  her,  he 
said:  "Rosemary,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 

She  turned  to  him,  startled,  then  averted  her 
face.  Every  vestige  of  colour  was  gone,  even 
from  her  lips.  "Don't!"  she  said,  brokenly. 
"Don't  make  fun  of  me.  I  must  go." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  trembling,  but  he 
caught  her  hand  and  held  her  back.  "Look 
at  me,  dear.  I  'm  not  making  fun  of  you. 
I  mean  it — every  word. " 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  then,  well  out  of 
reach  of  his  outstretched  hand.  "What  for?" 
she  asked,  curiously. 

"Because  I  want  you." 

"I — I  don't  understand." 

"Don't  you  love  me?" 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that."  Her 
tone  was  harsh  and  tremulous  with  suppressed 
emotion. 

"No,"  he  agreed,  after  a  pause,  "I  suppose 
I  haven't."  She  did  not  answer,  so,  after 
a  little,  he  rose  and  stood  before  her,  forcing 
her  eyes  to  meet  his. 

"Do  you — know  ?"  he  asked. 

Rosemary  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  Yes, 
I — know, "  she  said,  in  a  different  tone. 

"And  that  was  why  you— 

"  Yes. "     Her  voice  was  scarcely  audible  now. 

"It  wasn't  true,  then,  that  you  didn't 
love  me  ?" 


338 


/IDaster  of  tbe  IDinegaro 


Btoen 
Confesses 


She  turned  upon  him  fiercely.  "What 
right  have  you  to  ask  me  all  these  questions?" 
she  cried,  passionately.  "What  have  you  to 
offer  me?  How  can  you  take  all  I  have  to  give 
and  give  me  nothing  in  return  ?  What  is  your 
love  worth?  What  do  you  think  I  am?  The 
plaything  of  an  idle  hour,  something  to  be 
taken  up  or  cast  aside  whenever  you  may 
choose,  to  be  treated  kindly  or  brutally  as 
your  fancy  may  dictate,  to  be  insulted  by  your 
pity — by  what  you  call  your  love  ?  No,  a 
thousand  times  no!" 

His  face  was  very  white  and  his  mouth 
twitched,  but  in  a  moment  he  had  gained,  in  a 
measure,  his  self-control.  "  I  don't  blame  you 
in  the  least,  Rosemary.  I  deserve  it  all,  I 
know.  But,  before  you  condemn  me  utterly, 
will  you  listen  to  me  for  a  few  moments  ?" 

She  assented,  by  the  merest  inclination  of 
her  head. 

"  I  want  to  be  honest  with  you, "  he  went  on, 
clearing  his  throat,  "and  I  want  to  be  honest 
with  myself.  No  doubt  you  think  I  'm  all 
kinds  of  a  cad,  and  rightly  so,  but,  at  least, 
I  've  been  honest — that  is,  I  've  tried  to  be. 

"When  I  asked  you  to  marry  me,  early 
in  the  Spring,  I  meant  it,  just  as  I  mean  it 
now,  and  I  was  glad  when  you  said  you  would. 
Then — she  came. 

"I  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  her 
coming,  in  fact,  I  protested  against  it,  as 


JSetrotbal 


mother  will  tell  you  if  you  ask  her.  I  did  n't 
know  her,  and  I  did  n't  want  her,  but  after  I 
knew  her — 

"  You  did  want  her,"  said  Rosemary,  coldly. 

"Yes,  I  wanted  her,  and  she  was  married 
to  another  man.  She  had  sufficient  grounds 
for  a  divorce,  though  she  never  told  me  what 
they  were,  and  I  pleaded  with  her  to  take 
advantage  of  the  opportunity.  I  tried  by 
every  means  in  my  power  to  persuade  her, 
and  when  you — released  me " 

"You  were  glad,"  she  said,  finishing  the 
sentence  for  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  was  glad. 
She  decided,  finally,  to  leave  it  to  him.  If  he 
wanted  her  back,  she  would  go;  if  he  preferred 
his  freedom,  she  would  give  it  to  him.  And, 
of  course,  he  wanted  her,  and  he  had  the 
right." 

"So  she  went." 

"So  she  went,  and  it  was  all  over,  and  we 
shall  never  see  each  other  again." 

"It's  too  bad, "  said  Rosemary,  icily.  "  I  'm 
sorry  for  you  both. " 

"Listen  dear,"  he  pleaded.  His  face  was 
working  piteously  now.  "I  wish  I  could 
make  you  understand.  I  loved  her,  and 
I  love  her  still.  I  shall  love  her  as  long 
as  I  live,  and  perhaps  even  after  I  'm  dead. 
And  she  loves  me.  But,  because  of  it,  in 
some  strange  way  that  I  don't  comprehend 


340 


toaster  of  tbe  Dinegaro 


*e  States 
fMs  Case 


myself,  I  seem  to  have  more  love  to  give- 
others. 

"  I  care  more  for  my  mother  because  I  love 
— Edith,  and,  queer  as  you  may  think  it,  I 
care  more  for  you.  She  has  taken  nothing 
away  from  you  that  I  ever  gave  you — you 
are  dearer  to  me  to-day  than  when  I  first 
asked  you  to  marry  me,  so  long  ago.  I  don't 
suppose  you  '11  believe  it,  but  it 's  the  truth." 

"I  believe  what  you  tell  me,"  Rosemary 
said,  in  a  different  tone,  "but  I  don't  under 
stand  it." 

"It's  like  this,  Rosemary.  My  loving  her 
has  been  like  opening  the  door  into  the  House 
of  Life.  It's  made  everything  different  for 
me.  It 's  made  me  want  to  make  the  best  of 
myself,  to  do  things  for  people,  to  be  kind  to 
everybody.  It  isn't  selfishness — it's  unself 
ishness. 

"  I  told  you  once  that  I  wanted  to  take  you 
away  from  all  that  misery,  and  to  make  you 
happy.  It  was  true  then,  and  it 's  true  now, 
but,  at  that  time,  I  was  bound  in  shallows  and 
did  n't  know  it.  She  came  into  my  life  like  an 
overwhelming  flood,  and  swept  me  out  to 
sea.  Now  I  'm  back  in  the  current  again,  but 
I  shall  know  the  shallows  no  more — thank 
God! 

"If  you  '11  believe  me,  I  have  more  to  give 
than  I  had  then — and  I  want  you  more.  I  'm 
very  lonely,  Rosemary,  and  shall  be  always, 


36etrotbal 

unless — but,  no,  I  don't  want  your  pity;  I 
want  your  love." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then  Rosemary 
spoke.  "Service,"  she  said,  half  to  herself, 
"and  sacrifice.  Giving,  not  receiving.  Ask 
ing,  not  answer." 

"Yes,"  returned  Alden,  with  a  sigh,  "it's 
all  of  that. 

"Leaving  love  aside,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
little,  "  I  believe  you  'd  be  happier  here,  with 
mother  and  me,  than  you  are  where  you  are 
now.  You  'd  be  set  free  from  all  that  drudgery, 
you  could  help  me  in  my  work,  and,  though 
I  'm  not  rich,  I  could  give  you  a  few  of  the 
pretty  things  you  've  always  wanted.  We 
could  go  to  town  occasionally  and  see  things. 
Moreover,  I  could  take  care  of  you,  and  you  've 
never  been  taken  care  of.  I  don't  think  you  'd 
ever  be  sorry,  Rosemary,  even  though  you 
don't  love  me." 

"I  never  said  I  didn't  love  you,"  the  girl 
faltered.  Her  eyes  were  downcast  and  the 
colour  was  burning  upon  her  pale  face. 

"Yes,  you  did — up  on  the  hill.  Don't  you 
remember  ?" 

"I — I  wasn't  telling  the  truth,"  she  con 
fessed.  "I've — I've  always— 

"Rosemary!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  brimming  eyes. 
"What  you've  done,  or  what  you  may  do, 
does  n't  make  any  difference.  It  never  could. 


342  /roaster  of  tbe 


If  —  if  it  depends  at  all  on  —  on  the  other 
person,  I  don't  think  —  it  's  love." 

In  an  instant  his  arms  were  around  her,  and 
she  was  crying  happily  upon  his  shoulder. 
"Dear,  my  dear!  And  you  cared  all  the 
time  ?" 

"All  the  time,  "  she  sobbed. 

"What  a  brute  I  was!  How  I  must  have 
hurt  you!" 

"You  couldn't  help  it.  You  didn't  mean 
to  hurt  me." 

"No,  of  course  not,  but,  none  the  less  I  did 
it.  I  '11  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  trying  to 
make  up  for  it,  dear,  if  you  '11  let  me." 

It  flashed  upon  Rosemary  that  this  was  not 
at  all  like  the  impassioired  love-making  to 
which  she  had  been  an  unwilling  witness,  but, 
none  the  less,  it  was  sweet,  and  it  was  her  very 
own.  He  wanted  her,  and  merely  to  be 
wanted,  anywhere,  gives  a  certain  amount  of 
satisfaction. 

"Kiss  me,  dear."  Rosemary  put  up  her 
trembling  lips,,  answering  to  him  with  every 
fibre  of  body  and  soul. 

"Don't  cry,  dear  girl,  please  don't!  I  want 
to  make  you  happy." 

Rosemary  released  herself,  wiped  her  eyes 
upon  a  coarse  handkerchief,  then  asked  the 
inevitable  question: 

"Will  she  care?" 

"No,  she  '11  be  glad.    Mother  will  too." 


JBctrotbal 


"Grandmother  won't,"  she  laughed, hysteric 
ally,  "nor  Aunt  Matilda." 

"Never  mind  them.  You've  considered 
them  all  your  life,  now  it 's  your  turn." 

"It  doesn't  seem  that  I  deserve  it,"  whis 
pered  Rosemary,  with  touching  humility. 
"  I  've  never  been  happy,  except  for  a  little 
while  this  Spring,  and  now ' 

"And  now,"  he  said,  taking  her  into  his 
arms  again,  "you're  going  to  be  happy  all 
the  rest  of  your  life,  if  I  can  make  you  so. 
If  I  don't  you  '11  tell  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"I  can't  promise,"  she  murmured,  shyly, 
to  his  coat  sleeve.  "I  must  go  now,  it's 
getting  late." 

"Not  until  you've  told  me  when  you'll 
marry  me.  To-morrow  ?" 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Rosemary.  "Not  to 
morrow.  " 

"Why  not  ?" 

"It 's — it 's  too  soon." 

"In  a  week,  then  ?" 

"I — I  don't  know.     I  '11  see." 

"Make  it  very  soon,  my  dear,  will  you  ?" 

"Yes — just  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  Is  that  a  promise  ?" 

"  Yes — a  promise. " 

"Then  kiss  me." 

The  white  fire  burned  in  Rosemary's  blood; 
her  heart  beat  hard  with  rapturous  pain. 
Upon  the  desert  wastes  that  stretched  end- 


344  /toaster  ot  tbe 


*alf       lessly  before  her,  Spnng  had  come  with  the 

Bfrato  ,  ,  J.  ^   ,   ,  , 

old,  immortal  beauty,  and  more  than  mortal 
joy.  Half  afraid  of  her  own  ecstasy,  she 
broke  away  from  him  and  ran  home. 


XXIV 

Gbe  flMnteter's  Call 

"DOSEMARY!" 

1  \  Grandmother  called  imperiously,  but 
there  was  no  answer.  "Rosemary!"  she 
cried,  shrilly. 

"She  ain't  here,  Ma,"  said  Matilda.  "I 
reckon  she  's  gone  out  somewheres." 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  beat  of  it?  She's 
getting  high  and  mighty  all  of  a  sudden.  This 
makes  twice  lately  that  she  's  gone  out  with 
out  even  tellin'  us,  let  alone  askin'  whether 
she  could  go  or  not.  Just  wait  till  she  comes 
back." 

Matilda  laughed  in  her  most  aggravating 
manner.  "I  reckon  we'll  have  to  wait,"  she 
retorted,  "as  long  as  we  don't  know  where 
she's  gone  or  when  she  's  comin'  back." 

"Just  wait,"  repeated  Grandmother,  omin 
ously.  "I'll  tell  her  a  thing  or  two.  You 
just  see  if  I  don't!" 

The  fires  of  her  wrath  smouldered  dully, 
ready  to  blaze  forth  at  any  moment.  Matilda 
waited  with  the  same  sort  of  pleasurable 


346  faster  of  tbe  Iflineparfc 


excitement  which  impels  a  child  to  wait  under 
the  open  window  of  a  house  in  which  there  is 
good  reason  to  believe  that  an  erring  playmate 
is  about  to  receive  punishment. 

"What 's  she  been  doin'  all  day?"  Grand 
mother  demanded. 

"Nothin'  more  than  usual,  I  guess,"  Matilda 
replied.  "She  did  up  the  work  this  morning 
and  got  dinner,  and  washed  the  dishes  and  went 
to  the  store,  and  when  she  come  back,  she 
was  up  in  the  attic  for  a  spell,  and  then 
she  went  out  without  sayin'  where  she  was 
goin'." 

"In  the  attic?  What  was  she  doin'  in  the 
attic  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure." 

"She  's  got  no  call  to  go  to  the  attic.  If 
I  want  her  to  go  up  there,  I  '11  tell  her  so. 
This  is  my  house." 

"Yes,"  returned  Matilda,  with  a  sigh. 
"  I  've  heard  tell  that  it  was." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Grandmother. 

For  an  hour  or  more  there  was  silence,  not 
peaceful,  but  tense,  for  Grandmother  was 
thinking  of  things  she  might  say  to  the  way 
ward  Rosemary.  Then  the  culprit  came  in, 
cheerfully  singing  to  herself,  and  unmindful 
of  impending  judgment. 

"Rosemary!" 

"Yes,  Grandmother.     What  is  it  ?" 

"Come  here!" 


ZTbe  /HMnlster's  Call 


Rosemary  obeyed  readily  enough,  though 
she  detected  warlike  possibilities  in  the  tone. 

"Set  down!  I  've  got  something  to  say 
to  you!" 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  too, 
Grandmother,"  Rosemary  replied,  taking  the 
chair  indicated  by  the  shaking  forefinger. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  not  afraid 
of  the  old  lady. 

"  I  've  noticed, "  Grandmother  began,  tremu 
lously,  "that  you  're  getting  high  and  mighty 
all  of  a  sudden.  You  've  gone  out  twice  lately 
without  askin'  if  you  might  go,  and  I  won't 
have  it.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"I  hear  you, "  the  girl  answered.  "Is  that 
all  ?" 

"No,  't  ain't  all.  You  don't  seem  to  have 
any  sense  of  your  position.  Here  you  are  a 
poor  orphan,  beholden  to  your  grandmother 
for  every  mouthful  you  eat  and  all  the  clothes 
you  wear,  and  if  you  can't  behave  yourself 
better  'n  you  've  been  doin',  you  shan't  stay." 

A  faint  smile  appeared  around  the  corners 
of  Rosemary's  mouth,  then  vanished.  "Very 
well,  Grandmother,"  she  answered,  demurely, 
rising  from  her  chair.  "  I  '11  go  whenever 
you  want  me  to.  Shall  I  go  now  ?" 

"Set  down,"  commanded  the  old  lady. 
"  I  'd  like  to  know  where  you  'd  go!" 

"I'd  go  to  Mrs.  Marsh's;  I  think  she'd 
take  me  in." 


348 


flDaster  of  tbe  Dfneparfc 


1ROSC3 

mark's 

•JRejotnOer 


"You've  got  another  think  comin'  then," 
Grandmother  sneered.  ''Didn't  I  tell  you 
to  set  down  ?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Rosemary,  coolly,  "but 
I  'm  not  going  to.  I  said  I  had  something  to 
say  to  you.  I  'm  going  to  be  married  next 
week  to  Alden  Marsh.  I  've  taken  enough  of 
the  money  my  father  left  me  to  buy  a  white 
dress  and  a  new  hat,  and  the  storekeeper  has 
sent  to  the  City  for  me  for  some  white  shoes 
and  stockings.  I  'm  going  to  have  some  pretty 
underwear  too,  and  a  grey  travelling  dress. 
I  've  just  come  from  the  dressmakers,  now." 

"Money!"  screamed  the  old  lady.  "So 
that 's  what  you  've  been  doin'  in  the  attic. 
You're  a  thief,  that's  what  you  are!  Your 
mother  was — 

"Stop!"  said  Rosemary.  Her  voice  was 
low  and  controlled,  but  her  face  was  very 
white.  "  Not  another  word  against  my  mother. 
You  've  slandered  her  for  the  last  time.  I 
am  not  a  poor  orphan,  beholden  to  my  grand 
mother  for  the  food  I  eat  and  the  clothes  I 
wear.  On  the  contrary,  you  and  Aunt  Matilda 
are  dependent  upon  me,  and  have  been  for  a 
good  many  years.  I  have  father's  letter  here. 
Do  you  care  to  read  it  ?" 

Shaken  from  head  to  foot,  the  old  lady  sank 
into  her  chair.  She  was  speechless,  but  her 
eyes  blazed.  Matilda  sat  by  the  window,  dumb 
with  astonishment.  This  was  not  at  all  what 


Ube  rtMnister's  Call 


she  had  expected.  Rosemary  had  drawn  a 
yellow  old  letter  from  the  recesses  of  her  brown 
gingham  gown  and  was  offering  it  to  Grand 
mother.  The  sight  of  it  had  affected  the  old 
lady  powerfully. 

"Very  well,"  Rosemary  was  saying,  as  she 
returned  the  letter  to  its  hiding-place.  "In 
case  you  've  forgotten,  I  '11  tell  you  what 's 
in  it.  The  day  father  sailed  up  the  coast,  he 
sent  you  a  draft  for  more  than  eleven  thousand 
dollars.  He  said  it  was  for  me — for  my  clothes 
and  my  education,  in  case  anything  happened 
to  him.  He  said  that  you  were  to  give  me 
whatever  I  might  want  or  need,  as  long  as  the 
money  lasted.  I  '11  leave  it  to  you  whether 
you  've  carried  out  his  instructions  or  not. 

"Now  that  I  'm  going  to  be  married,  I  've 
taken  the  liberty  of  helping  myself  to  a  small 
part  of  what  is  my  own.  There 's  almost 
two  thousand  dollars  left,  and  you  're  quite 
welcome  to  it,  but  I  won't  be  married  in 
brown  gingham  nor  go  to  my  husband  in 
ragged  shoes,  and  if  I  think  of  anything  else  I 
want,  I  'm  going  to  have  it." 

"Ma,"  said  Matilda,  tremulously,  "if  this 
is  so,  we  ain't  done  right  by  Rosemary." 

"It;s  so,"  Rosemary  continued,  turning 
toward  the  figure  at  the  window.  "You  can 
read  the  letter  if  you  want  to."  She  put  her 
hand  to  her  breast  again,  but  Matilda  shook 
her  head. 


35o  /IDaster  of  tbe 


"If  you  want  me  to,"  the  girl  went  on, 

inotbcr  s  J  ° 

"  I  '11  go  now.  Mrs.  Marsh  will  take  me  in, 
but  I  '11  have  to  explain  why  I  ask  it.  I 
have  n't  told  Alden,  or  his  mother,  and  I 
don't  want  to.  I  won't  bring  shame  upon  those 
of  my  own  blood  if  I  can  help  it.  But  what 
I  've  had,  I  've  earned,  and  I  don't  feel  in 
debted  to  you  for  anything,  not  even  a  single 
slice  of  bread.  That  'sail." 

Grandmother  staggered  to  her  feet,  breath 
ing  heavily.  Her  face  was  colourless,  her 
lips  ashen  grey.  "Rosemary  Starr,"  she  said, 
with  long  pauses  between  the  words,  "  I  '11 
never  —  speak  to  —  you  —  again  as  —  long  as  —  I 
—  live."  Then  she  fell  back  into  her  chair, 
with  her  hand  upon  her  heart. 

"Very  well,  Grandmother,"  Rosemary  re 
turned,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "You'll 
have  to  do  as  you  like  about  that." 

By  supper-time  the  household  was  calm 
again  —  upon  the  surface.  True  to  her  word, 
Grandmother  refused  to  communicate  directly 
with  Rosemary.  She  treated  the  girl  as  she 
might  a  piece  of  furniture  —  unworthy  of 
attention  except  in  times  of  actual  use. 

She  conveyed  her  wishes  through  Matilda, 
as  a  sort  of  human  telephone.  "Matilda," 
she  would  say,  "will  you  ask  Rosemary  to  fill 
the  tea-pot  with  hot  water?"  And,  again: 
"Matilda,  will  you  tell  Rosemary  to  put  out 
the  milk  pitcher  and  to  lock  the  back  door  ?" 


ZTbe  /BMnister's  Call 


351 


It  was  not  necessary,  however,  for  Matilda 
to  tell  Rosemary.  The  girl  accepted  the 
requests  as  though  they  had  been  given  directly 
—with  her  head  held  high  and  the  faintest 
shadow  of  an  ironical  smile  upon  her  face. 

APer  supper,  while  Rosemary  was  washing 
the  dishes,  Grandmother  took  the  lamp.  She 
was  half-way  to  the  door  when  Matilda  in 
quired:  "Where  are  you  goin',  Ma?" 

"  I  'm  goin'  up  to  my  room,  to  set  and  read 
a  spell." 

"But— but  the  lamp?" 

"I  need  it  to  read  by,"  Grandmother  an 
nounced,  with  considerable  asperity,  "and 
you  don't  need  to  hunt  around  for  no  more 
lamps,  neither.  I  've  got  'em  all  put  away." 

"But,"  Matilda  objected;  "me  and  Rose 
mary— 

"You  and  Rosemary!  Humph!  You  can 
set  in  the  dark  or  anywhere  else  you  please." 
With  that  she  slammed  the  door  and  was  gone. 
Rosemary  came  in,  after  a  little,  humming  to 
herself  with  an  assumed  cheerfulness  she  was 
far  from  feeling.  Then  she  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  and  came  back  with  a  match.  The 
feeble  flicker  of  it  revealed  only  Aunt  Matilda 
— and  no  lamp. 

"Where  's  Grandmother?"  asked  Rosemary, 
in  astonishment.  "And  what  has  become  of 
the  lamp?" 

"She's  gone   up   to   her   room   and   she's 


Xeft  in  tbe 

£>arh 


352  flDaster  ot  tbe 


Hunt       took  the  lamp  with  her."     Matilda  laughed, 
£52    hysterically. 

Rosemary  brought  in  the  candle,  from  the 
kitchen.  As  it  happened,  it  was  the  last 
candle  and  was  nearly  gone,  but  it  would  burn 
for  an  hour  or  two. 

"1  'm  sorry,  Aunt  Matilda,"  said  Rosemary, 
kindly,  "if  you  want  to  read, or  anything— 

"I  don't,"  she  interrupted.  "I'd  like  to 
sit  and  talk  a  spell.  I  don't  know  as  we 
need  the  candle.  If  she  should  happen  to 
come  back,  she  'd  be  mad.  She  said  she  'd 
put  away  the  lamps,  and  I  reckon  she  'd  have 
took  the  candle,  too,  if  she'd  thought." 

"Very  well,"  answered  Rosemary,  blowing 
out  the  candle.  "I  'm  not  afraid  of  the 
dark."  Moreover,  it  was  not  the  general  policy 
of  the  household  to  ruffle  Grandmother's 
temper  unnecessarily. 

"Rosemary,"  said  Aunt  Matilda,  a  little 
later;  "Ma's  a  hard  woman — she  always  has 
been." 

"  Yes, "  the  girl  agreed,  listlessly. 

"I  ain't  never  said  much,  but  I  've  had  my 
own  troubles.  I  've  tried  to  bear 'em  patiently, 
but  sometimes  I  ain't  been  patient — she 's 
always  made  me  feel  so  ugly. " 

Rosemary  said  nothing,  but  she  felt  a 
strange  softening  of  her  heart  toward  Aunt 
Matilda.  "I  don't  know  as  you'll  believe 
me,"  the  older  woman  went  on  after  a  pause, 


fl&inister'5  Call 


353 


"but  I  never  knew  nothin'  about  that 
money." 

"I  know  you  didn't,  Aunt  Matilda.  It's 
behind  a  loose  brick  in  the  chimney,  in  the  attic, 
on  the  right-hand  side.  You  have  to  stand  on 
a  chair  to  reach  it.  If  you  want  any  of  it,  go 
and  help  yourself.  It's  mine,  and  you're 
welcome  to  it,  as  far  as  I  'm  concerned." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  'd  want,"  returned 
Matilda,  gloomily.  "  I  ain't  never  had  nothin', 
and  I  've  sort  of  got  out  of  the  habit.  I  did 
used  to  think  that  if  it  ever  come  my  way,  I  'd 
like  a  white  straw  hat  with  red  roses  on  it, 
but  I  'm  too  old  for  it  now." 

Tears  of  pity  filled  Rosemary's  eyes  and  a 
lump  rose  in  her  throat.  Aunt  Matilda's 
deprivations  had  been  as  many  as  her  own,  and 
had  extended  over  a  much  longer  period.  The 
way  of  escape  was  open  for  Rosemary,  but 
the  older  woman  must  go  on,  hopelessly,  until 
the  end. 

"It  was  sixteen  years  ago  to-night,"  said 
Aunt  Matilda,  dreamily,  "that  the  minister 
come  to  call." 

"Was  it?"  asked  Rosemary.  She  did  not 
know  what  else  to  say. 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  'd  remember  it, 
but  I  guess  you  was  too  little.  You  was  only 
nine,  and  you  used  to  go  to  bed  at  half-past 
seven.  It  was  five  minutes  of  eight  when  he 
come." 


pit?  for 

Bunt 
flDattl&a 


354 


flDaster  of  tbe 


trbe 

Ainieter 
Belie  to 

Call 


"Was  it?"  asked  Rosemary,  again. 

"Yes.  Don't  you  remember  hearin'  the 
door  bell  ring?" 

"No— I  must  have  been  asleep." 

"Children  go  to  sleep  awful  quick.  It  was 
five  minutes  of  eight  when  he  come." 

"Were  you  expecting  him?" 

"No,  I  was  n't.  He  'd  said  to  me  once,  on 
the  way  out  of  church  after  Sunday-school; 
'Miss  Matilda,  I  must  be  comin'  over  to  see 
you  some  one  of  these  pleasant  evenings,  with 
your  kind  permission.'  Just  like  that,  he 
says,  'with  your  kind  permission.'  I  was  so 
flustered  I  could  n't  say  much,  but  I  did 
manage  to  tell  him  that  Ma  and  me  would  be 
pleased  to  see  him  any  time,  and  what  do  you 
suppose  he  said?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Rosemary. 

"He  said:  'It's  you  I  'm  comin'  to  see- 
not  your  Ma.'    Just  like  that — 'It's  you!'  ' 
Her  voice  had  a  new  note  in  it — a  strange  thrill 
of  tenderness. 

"And  so,"  she  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "he 
come.  I  was  wearin'  my  brown  alpaca  that 
I  'd  just  finished.  I  'd  tried  it  on  after  supper 
to  see  if  it  was  all  right,  and  it  was,  so  I  kept 
on  wearin'  it,  though  Ma  was  tellin'  me  all 
the  time  to  take  it  off.  Her  and  me  had  just 
cleaned  the  parlour  that  day.  It  couldn't 
have  happened  better.  And  when  the  bell 
rang,  I  went  to  the  door  myself." 


flMntster's  Call 


"Were  you  surprised?" 

"My  land,  yes!  I  'd  thought  maybe  he  'd 
come,  but  not  without  tellin'  me  when,  or 
askin'  for  permission,  as  he  'd  said.  He  come 
in  and  took  off  his  hat  just  like  he  was  expected, 
and  he  shook  hands  with  Ma  and  me.  He  only 
said  'How  do  you  do  Mis'  Starr?'  to  her,  but 
to  me,  he  says:  'I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  Miss 
Matilda.  How  well  you're  looking!'  Yes- 
just  like  that. 

"We  went  and  set  down  in  the  parlour. 
I  'd  cleaned  the  lamp  that  day,  too — it  was 
the  same  lamp  Ma's  took  up-stairs  with  her 
now.  1 1  was  on  the  centre-table,  by  the  basket 
of  wax-flowers  under  the  glass  shade.  They 
was  almost  new  then  and  none  of  'em  was 
broken.  They  looked  awful  pretty. 

"Ma  came  in  the  parlour,  too,  and  she  set 
down  between  him  and  me,  and  she  says: 
'  I  've  been  wantin'  to  ask  you  something 
ever  since  I  heard  your  last  sermon,  three 
weeks  ago  come  Sunday.  I  ain't  been  to 
church  since  and  I  can't  feel  like  I  ought  to 

go-' 

"  'I  'm  sorry,'  he  says,  just  as  gentle.  'If 
you  have  any  doubts  that  I  can  clear  up,'  he 
says,  'about  the  Scripture ' 

"  '"'T  ain't  the  Scripture  I  'm  doubtin'/  says 
Ma,  'it 's  you.' 

"'That  isn't  as  bad,'  he  says,  smilin', 
but  I  could  see  he  was  scared.  You  know 


356 


toaster  of  tbe 


HHecueeing 
JSapttsm 


how  Ma  is — especially  when  you  ain't  used 
to  her. 

'"I  'd  like  to  ask/  says  Ma,  'whether  you 
believe  that  unbaptised  infants  is  goin'  to  be 
saved. ' 

"  'Why,  yes/  he  says.     '  I  do.' 

"'I  suspicioned  it,'  Ma  says.  Oh,  her 
voice  was  awful!  'May  I  ask  you  just  what 
grounds  you  have  for  belie vin'  such  a  thing?' 

"  'I  don't  know  as  I  could  tell  you  just 
what  grounds  I  have, '  he  says,  '  but  I  certainly 
feel  that  the  God  I  humbly  try  to  serve  is  not 
only  just  but  merciful.  And  if  there  's  any 
thing  on  earth  purer  or  more  like  a  flower  than 
a  little  baby,'  he  says,  'I  don't  know  what  it 
is,  whether  it 's  been  baptised  or  not.  I  don't 
think  God  cares  so  much  about  forms  and 
ceremonies  as  he  does  about  people's  hearts.' 
Them  's  the  very  words  he  said. 

"Well,"  resumed  Matilda,  after  a  pause, 
"Ma  was  bent  on  arguin'  with  him,  about 
that,  and  baptism'  by  sprinklin'  or  by  immer 
sion,  and  about  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel,  and 
goodness  knows  what  else.  He  did  n't  want 
to  argue,  and  was  all  the  time  tryin'  to  change 
the  subject,  but  it  was  no  use.  I  never  got 
a  chance  to  say  a  dozen  words  to  him,  and 
finally,  when  he  got  up  to  go,  he  says:  'I  've 
had  a  very  pleasant  evenin',  and  I  'd  like  to 
come  again  sometime  soon,  if  I  may, '  he  says. 
Just  like  that. 


Ube  Minister's  Call 


"And  before  I  could  say  a  word,  Ma  had 
said:  '  I  dunno  as  we  feel  ourselves  in  need  of 
your  particular  brand  of  theology,'  she  says. 
'It's  my  opinion  that  you  ought  to  be  up 
before  the  trustees  instead  of  around  callin' 
on  faithful  members  of  the  church,  sowin' 
the  seeds  of  doubt  in  their  minds.'  ' 

"His  face  turned  bright  red,  but  he  shook 
hands  with  Ma,  very  polite,  and  with  me. 
I  've  always  thought  he  squeezed  my  hand  a 
little.  And  he  says  to  me,  very  pleasant: 
'Good-night,  Miss  Matilda,'  but  that  was  all, 
for  Ma  went  to  the  door  with  him  and  banged 
it  shut  before  he  'd  got  down  the  steps. 

"The  day  before  he  went  away,  I  met  him 
in  the  post-office,  accidental,  and  he  says: 
'Miss  Matilda,  I  've  got  somethin'  for  you 
if  you  '11  accept  it/and  he  took  me  over  to  one 
side  where  there  could  n't  nobody  see  us,  and 
he  give  me  his  tintype.  And  he  says:  'I  hope 
you  '11  always  remember  me,  Miss  Matilda. 
You  '11  promise  not  to  forget  me,  won't  you?' 

"And  I  promised,"  she  resumed,  "and  I 
ain't.  I 'veal  ways  remembered." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  then  Miss  Matilda 
cleared  her  throat.  "Light  the  candle,  Rose 
mary,  will  you?" 

When  the  tiny  flame  appeared,  Rosemary 
saw  that  the  older  woman's  face  was  wet  with 
unaccustomed  tears.  She  reached  down  into 
the  bosom  of  her  dress  and  drew  out  a  small 


358  flDaster  of  tbe 


packet,  which  she  removed  carefully  from  its 
many  wrappings.  "See,"  she  said. 

Rosemary  leaned  over  to  look  at  the  pictured 
face.  The  heavy  beard  did  not  wholly  conceal 
the  sensitive,  boyish  mouth,  and  even  the 
crude  art  had  faithfully  portrayed  the  dreamy, 
boyish  eyes. 

"  I  want  toask  you  something,  "Aunt  Matilda 
said,  as  she  wrapped  it  up  again.  "  You  're  go 
ing  to  be  married  yourself,  now,  and  you  '11  know 
about  such  things.  Do  you  think,  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  Ma,  it  might  have  been — anything?" 

Rosemary  put  out  the  light.  "I'm  sure 
it  would,"  she  said,  kindly. 

"Oh,  Rosemary!"  breathed  the  other,  with 
a  quick  indrawing  of  the  breath.  "Are  you 
truly  sure?" 

"Truly,"  said  Rosemary,  very  softly.  Then 
she  added,  convincingly:  "You  know  Alden 's 
never  been  to  see  me  but  once,  and  I  have  n't 
even  a  tintype  of  him,  and  yet  we  're  going 
to  be  married. " 

"That's  so.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 
I  guess  you're  right."  Then  she  added, 
generously,  "  I  'm  glad  you  're  goin'  to  be 
married,  Rosemary,  and  I  hope  you  '11  be 
happy.  You  've  got  it  comin'  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Rosemary,  choking  a 
little  on  the  words.  "Thank  you,  dear  Aunt 
Matilda."  Then  someway,  in  the  dark,  their 
arms  found  each  other  and  their  lips  met. 


XXV 

H  UttlefcMng 

THE  air  was  crystalline  and  cool,  yet  soft, 
and  full  of  a  mysterious,  spicy  fra 
grance.  Blue  skies  arched  down  at  the  vast 
curve  of  the  horizon  to  meet  a  bluer  sea. 
Snowy  gulls  swept  lazily  through  the  clear 
blue  spaces,  their  hoarse  crying  softened  into 
a  weird  music.  Upon  the  dazzling  reaches 
of  white  sand,  Rosemary  was  walking  with 
Alden. 

He  had  his  arm  around  her  and  her  face  was 
turned  toward  his.  He  was  radiant  with  youth 
and  the  joy  of  living.  It  was  in  the  spring  of 
his  step  upon  the  sand,  the  strong,  muscular 
lines  of  his  body,  and,  more  than  all,  in  his 
face.  In  his  eyes  were  the  strange,  sweet 
fires  that  Rosemary  had  seen  the  day  she 
was  hidden  in  the  thicket  and  saw  him  holding 
Edith  in  his  arms.  But  it  was  all  for  her 
now,  for  Rosemary,  and  the  past  was  as  dead 
as  though  it  had  never  been. 

As  they  walked,  they  talked,  saying  to 
each  other  the  thousand  dear  and  foolish 


360  /roaster  of  tbe 


strofte  things  that  lovers  have  said  since,  back  in  the 
Garden,  the  First  Woman  looked  into  the 
eyes  of  the  First  Man  and  knew  that  God  had 
made  her  to  be  his  mate.  Suddenly  a  white 
cliff  loomed  up  on  the  beach  before  them  and 
from  its  depths  came  a  tremendous  knocking, 
as  though  some  one  were  endeavouring  to 
escape  from  a  hopeless  fastness  of  stone. 

They  paused,  but  the  knocking  continued, 
growing  louder  and  louder.  Then  a  hoarse 
voice  called  "  Rosemary !  Rosemary ! " 

The  girl  came  to  herself  with  a  start,  rub 
bing  her  eyes.  Gaunt  and  grey  in  the  first 
dim  light  of  morning,  Aunt  Matilda  stood  over 
her,  clad  in  a  nondescript  dressing-gown. 

"Rosemary!"  she  whispered,  shrilly.  "Come 
quick!  Ma's  had  a  stroke!" 

They  ran  back  to  the  old  lady's  room.  In 
the  girl's  confused  remembrance  the  narrow 
hallway  seemed  to  be  a  continuation  of  the 
white,  sunlit  beach,  with  the  blue  sky  and 
sea  changed  to  faded  wall  paper,  and  the 
cliff  gone. 

Grandmother  lay  upon  her  bed,  helpless, 
uttering  harsh,  guttural  sounds  that  seemingly 
bore  no  relation  to  speech.  Her  eyes  blazed 
at  the  sight  of  Rosemary  and  she  tried  to  sit 
up  in  bed,  but  could  not. 

"When?"  asked  Rosemary. 

"Just  now,"  Aunt  Matilda  answered.  "I 
was  asleep,  and  when  I  woke  up  I  heard  her. 


H 


She  must  have  woke  me  up.  What  shall  we 
do?"  she  continued,  helplessly,  after  a  pause. 

"I  don't  know,"  Rosemary  whispered,  al 
most  stunned  by  the  shock.  "  I  '11  dress  and 
go  for  the  doctor." 

In  an  hour  she  had  returned  with  the  physi 
cian,  who  felt  the  old  lady's  pulse,  and  shook 
his  head.  In  the  hall,  he  interviewed  the 
other  two. 

"Has  she  had  any  shock?"  he  asked. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer,  then 
Matilda  answered  clearly:  "No." 

"No,"  echoed  Rosemary. 

"No  unusual  excitement  of  any  sort?  Or 
no  bad  news?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  Matilda  replied, 
calmly. 

"Nothing  unusual,"  Rosemary  assured 
him. 

"Extraordinary!"  he  murmured.  "I  '11  be 
in  again  this  afternoon." 

When  he  had  gone,  Aunt  Matilda  turned 
anxiously  to  Rosemary.  "  Do  you  think  we 
did  right?  Shouldn't  we  have  told  him?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  difference  it  could 
make,"  Rosemary  replied,  thoughtfully.  "I  'd 
hate  to  have  anybody  know  what  she  's  done. 
Maybe  it's  my  fault,"  she  went  on,  sadly. 
"Perhaps  I  should  n't  have  told  her." 

"Don't  go  to  blaming  yourself,  Rosemary. 
I  don't  know  why  you  should  n't  have  told 


362 


/Caster  of  tbe  IDinegarfc 


Tunable  to 
Speak 


her.  If  I  'd  been  you,  I  'd  have  told  her  long 
ago — or  had  you  just  found  it  out?" 

"I've  known  for  quite  a  while.  I  don't 
think  I  'd  have  said  anything,  though,  if  I 
wasn't  going  to  be  married.  It  didn't  seem 
as  if  I  could  be  married  in  brown  gingham 
when  father  meant  for  me  to  have  everything 
I  wanted  and  the  money  was  there." 

"Don't  worry  about  it  for  a  minute,"  said 
Aunt  Matilda,  kindly.  "  You  've  done  just 
right  and  you  ain't  to  blame  for  what 's  hap 
pened.  It 's  her  own  fault." 

Rosemary  prepared  a  breakfast  tray  and 
Matilda  took  it  up.  "It's  better  for  you  to 
stay  away,  Rosemary,"  she  said,  "for  we 
don't  want  her  to  get  excited."  When  she 
returned,  she  reported  that  the  old  lady  had, 
with  evident  difficulty,  eaten  a  little  oatmeal 
and  choked  down  a  cup  of  coffee.  She  was 
calmer,  but  unable  to  speak. 

The  unaccustomed  silence  of  the  house 
affected  them  both  strangely.  Grandmother 
might  be  upstairs  and  helpless  but  the  powerful 
impress  of  her  personality  still  lingered  in  the 
rooms  below.  Her  red-and-black  plaid  shawl, 
hanging  from  the  back  of  her  chair,  conveyed 
a  subtle  restraint;  the  chair  itself  seemed  as 
though  she  had  just  left  it  and  was  likely 
to  return  to  it  at  any  moment. 

When  the  doctor  came  again,  in  the  after 
noon,  Matilda  went  up-stairs  with  him,  while 


H 


Rosemary  waited  anxiously  in  the  dining- 
room.  It  seemed  a  long  time  until  they  came 
back  and  held  a  brief  whispered  conference 
at  the  front  door.  When  he  finally  went  out, 
Matilda  came  into  the  dining-room,  literally 
tense  with  excitement. 

"  He  says,"  she  began,  sinking  into  a  chair, 
"that  he  don't  know.  I  like  it  in  him  myself, 
for  a  doctor  that  '11  admit  he  don't  know,  when 
he  don't,  instead  of  leavin'  you  to  find  out  by 
painful  experience,  is  not  only  scarce,  but  he  's 
to  be  trusted  when  you  come  across  him. 

"  He  says  she  may  get  better  and  she  may 
not — that  in  a  little  while  she  may  be  up  and 
movin'  around  and  talkin'  again  about  the 
same  as  she  always  did,  and  again,  she  may 
stay  just  like  she  is,  or  get  worse.  He  said 
he  'd  do  what  he  could,  but  he  could  n't  pro 
mise  anything — that  only  time  would  tell. 

"If  she  stays  like  this,  she  's  got  to  be  took 
care  of  just  the  same  as  if  she  was  a  baby- 
fed  and  turned  over  and  bathed, — and  if  she 
gets  better  she  can  help  herself  some.  Seems 
funny,  don't  it  ?  Yesterday  she  was  rampagin' 
around  and  layin'  down  the  law  to  you,  and 
to-day  she  can't  say  yes  or  no." 

"She  said  yesterday,"  Rosemary  returned, 
"that  she  'd  never  speak  to  me  again  as  long 
as  she  lived.  I  wonder  if  it 's  true!" 

"  I  wonder!"  echoed  Matilda.  "  I  'd  forgot 
ten  that." 


364 


/Caster  of  tbe  Dinegarfc 


TTbe 
liQav  Of 
Sacrifice 


"  I  had  n't,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  grim  smile. 

"Seems  almost  as  if  it  might  be  a  judgment 
on  her,"  Matilda  observed,  after  a  pause. 
"She  said  she  'd  never  speak  to  you  again  and 
she  may  never  speak  to  anybody  any  more. 
And  I  've  got  to  take  care  of  her.  That's  the 
trouble  with  judgments — they  never  hit  just 
the  person  they  were  meant  to  hit.  We  're 
all  so  mixed  up  that  somebody  else  has  to  be 
dragged  into  it." 

Plainly  before  Rosemary  there  opened  the 
way  of  sacrifice  and  denial.  For  a  moment 
she  hesitated,  then  offered  up  her  joy  on  the 
altar  of  duty. 

"I  won't  be  married,  Aunt  Matilda,"  she 
said,  bravely,  though  her  mouth  quivered. 
"  I  '11  stay  and  help  you." 

"What?" 

"I  said  I  wouldn't  be  married.  I'll— 
I  '11  tell  Alden  I  can't.  I  '11  stay  and  help 
you." 

"You  won't.  I  won't  have  you  speak  of 
such  a  thing,  let  alone  doing  it." 

"You  can't  help  it,  if  I  make  up  my  mind." 

"  Yes,  I  can.  I  '11  go  and  see  Mrs.  Marsh, 
and  him,  and  the  minister,  and  the  doctor,  and 
everybody.  I  '11  tell  'em  all  everything.  You 
go  right  on  ahead  with  your  gettin'  married. 
I  ain't  goin'  to  have  your  life  spoiled  the  way 
mine  has  been.  You  're  young  yet  and  you  've 
got  a  right  to  it." 


H 


"But— but,  Aunt  Matilda!" 

"Aunt  Matilda  nothin'!  What  could  you 
do,  anyhow?  She  don't  want  you  anywheres 
near  her,  and  the  doctor  said  she  must  n't  be 
excited." 

"  I  could  do  what  I  've  always  done — cooking 
and  cleaning  and  washing  and  ironing,  and  I 
could  carry  things  up-stairs  for  you." 

"Maybe  you  could,  Rosemary,  but  you 
ain't  goin'  to.  You  've  served  out  your  time. 
Don't  you  worry  about  me — I  ain't  goin'  to 
kill  myself." 

"I  —  I  wish  you  'd  let  me, "  Rosemary 
stammered. 

"Well,  I  won't,  and  that's  the  end  of  it. 
I  '11  get  along  someways.  The  minister  used 
to  say  that  when  God  gave  any  of  us  a  burden 
we  could  n't  carry  by  ourselves,  He  'd  always 
send  help,  so,  if  I  need  help,  I  '11  have  it. 

"  I  '11  enjoy  myself,  too,  in  a  way,"  she  went 
on,  after  a  little.  "It's  goin'  to  seem  awful 
peaceful  to  have  the  house  quiet,  with  no 
talkin'  nor  argument  goin'  on  in  it.  Sometimes 
I  've  thought  that  if  I  could  get  out  of  the 
sound  of  the  human  voice  for  a  spell  I  would  n't 
feel  so  ugly.  It 's  wore  on  me  considerable— 
never  bein'  alone  except  nights  or  when  I 
went  up-stairs  afternoons  and  pretended  to 
take  a  nap.  Lots  of  times  I  was  n't  lyin' 
down  at  all — I  was  just  settin'  there,  with  the 
door  locked,  thinkin'  how  nice  and  quiet  it 


366 


flDaster  of  tbe 


TTbc 

TOleSSfng 
Sawn 


was.  Ma  '11  get  a  good  rest,  too,  while  she 
ain't  talkin',  though  it  ain't  for  me  to  say 
she  's  needed  it." 

"So,"  she  continued,  clearing  her  throat, 
"you  go  right  on  ahead  with  your  marrying." 

Rosemary  bent  and  kissed  the  hollow,  with 
ered  cheek.  "I  will,"  she  said.  "Oh,  dear 
Aunt  Matilda!  I  wish  you  hadn't  missed 
it  all!" 

The  older  woman's  steel  blue  eyes  softened, 
then  filled.  "  Maybe  I  've  missed  it  and  maybe 
I  ain't,"  she  said,  huskily.  "Maybe  this  life 
is  only  a  discipline  to  fit  us  for  somethin' 
better  that's  comin'.  Anyway,  if  we  keep  on 
goin'  and  doin'  the  best  we  can  as  we  go,  I 
believe  God  will  make  it  right  for  us  later 
on." 

The  morning  of  Rosemary's  wedding  dawned 
clear  and  cool.  It  was  Autumn  and  yet  the 
sweetness  of  Summer  still  lingered  in  the  air. 
Scarlet  banners  trailed  upon  the  maples  and 
golden  leaves  rained  from  the  birches,  shim 
mering  as  they  fell.  Amethystine  haze  lay 
upon  the  valley,  shot  through  with  silver 
gleams  from  the  river  that  murmured  toward 
the  sea  with  the  sound  of  far  waters  asleep. 

Purple  lights  laid  enchantment  upon  the 
distant  hills,  where  the  Tapestry-Maker  had 
stored  her  threads — great  skeins  of  crimson 
and  golden  green,  russet  and  flaming  orange, 


B 


to  be  woven  into  the  warp  and  woof  of  Sep 
tember  by  some  magic  of  starlight  and  dawn. 
Lost  rainbows  and  forgotten  sunsets  had 
mysteriously  come  back,  to  lie  for  a  moment 
upon  hill  or  river,  and  then  to  disappear. 

Noon  had  been  chosen  for  the  ceremony, 
in  the  little  church  at  the  foot  of  the  Hill  of 
the  Muses,  for,  as  Alden  had  said,  with  a 
laugh,  "even  though  it  was  private,  it  might 
as  well  be  fashionable."  Aunt  Matilda  was 
up  at  dawn,  putting  new  lace  into  the  neck 
and  sleeves  of  her  best  brown  alpaca,  as 
tremulous  and  anxious  as  though  she  herself 
were  to  be  the  bride. 

Rosemary  had  packed  her  few  belongings 
the  day  before,  in  the  little  old-fashioned 
trunk  that  had  been  her  mother's.  As  she 
dressed,  Aunt  Matilda  sat  on  the  bed,  pathetic 
ally  eager  to  help  in  some  way,  though  it  might 
be  only  to  pin  up  a  stray  lock  or  tie  a  shoe. 

Rosemary  shook  out  the  dull  ashen  masses 
of  her  hair  with  a  sigh.  As  she  put  it  up, 
Alden's  big  betrothal  diamond  blazed  star- 
like  upon  her  rough,  red  hand.  She  contem 
plated  it  ruefully — it  seemed  so  out  of  place- 
then  brightened  at  the  memory  of  the  promise 
Mrs.  Marsh  had  made  so  long  ago. 

"She  '11  teach  me  how  to  take  care  of  my 
hands,"  said  Rosemary,  half  to  herself,  "so 
they  '11  look  like  hers." 

"She?"  repeated  Aunt  Matilda.     "Who?" 


368 


"Mrs.  Marsh — mother.'' 
pensation  "Yes,  I  guess  she  will.  She'll  teach  you 
a  lot  of  things  Ma  and  me  have  never 
heard  tell  of.  Maybe  you  'd  just  as  soon 
ask  her,  Rosemary,  why  she  never  returned 
my  call?" 

"I  will,  surely.  I  don't  think  she  meant 
anything  by  it,  Aunt  Matilda.  She  might 
have  been  busy  and  forgotten  about  it.  Any 
how,  you  '11  have  to  come  to  see  me 
now." 

"Yes,  1  will.  I  've  thought  I  'd  put  the 
minister's  tintype  up  on  the  mantel  now,  as 
long  as  Ma  ain't  likely  to  see  it.  It'll  be 
company  for  me.  And  I  reckon  I  '11  get  me 
a  cat.  I  always  wanted  one  and  Ma  would 
never  let  me  have  it.  I  can  keep  it  downstairs 
and  she  may  never  know  about  it,  but  even 
if  she  hears  it  meowing,  or  me  talkin'  to  it, 
she  can't  say  nothin'  about  it. 

"My,  ain't  it  beautiful!"  she  continued,  as 
Rosemary  slipped  her  white  gown  over  her 
head.  "Please  let  me  hook  it  up,  Rosemary — 
this  is  as  near  as  I  '11  ever  come  to  a  wedding. 
Are  you  going  in  to  see  her  before  you 
go?" 

Rosemary  hesitated.  "Yes,"  she  sighed, 
"I  '11  go.  I  think  I  ought  to." 

"Don't  if  you  don't  want  to.  I  wouldn't 
spoil  my  wedding-day  by  doing  anything  I 
did  n't  like  to  do." 


H  Webbing 


"I  want  to,"  murmured  Rosemary.  "I 
would  n't  feel  right  not  to." 

So,  when  she  was  ready,  she  went  into  the 
old  lady's  room.  Happiness  made  her  almost 
lovely  as  she  stood  there  in  her  simple  white 
gown  and  big  plumed  hat,  drawing  long  white 
kid  gloves  over  her  red  hands. 

"Grandmother,"  she  said,  tremulously, 
"I  'm  going  up  to  the  church  now,  to  be 
married  to  Alden  Marsh.  Before  I  go,  I 
want  to  tell  you  I  'm  sorry  if  I  've  ever 
done  anything  I  should  n't  do,  and  ask  you 
to  forgive  me  for  any  unhappiness  I  may  ever 
have  caused  you.  I  have  n't  meant  to  do 
it,  and  I — I  believe  you've  meant  to  be 
good  to  me.  I  hope  you  're  glad  I  'm  going 
to  be  happy  now." 

The  stern  old  face  relaxed,  ever  so  little, 
the  sharp  eyes  softened  with  mist,  and  by 
tremendous  effort,  Grandmother  put  out  a 
withered,  wavering  hand.  Rosemary  bent 
over  the  bed,  lifted  her  in  her  strong  young 
arms,  and  kissed  her  twice,  then  hurried 
away. 

Alden  met  them  as  they  were  half-way  to 
the  church,  and,  utterly  regardless  of  two  or 
three  interested  children  who  happened  to  be 
passing,  shook  hands  with  Aunt  Matilda,  then 
bent  to  kiss  the  flushed  and  happy  face  under 
the  big  plumed  hat. 

"What  magnificence!"  he  said.     "I'm  un- 


3fi9 


<3ran6« 
motber 

IRclaies 


370 


fl&aster  of  tbe 


TEbe 

Ceremony 


worthy  of  so  much  splendour,  I  'm  afraid. 
How  on  earth  did  you  manage  it?" 

Rosemary  glanced  at  Aunt  Matilda,  then 
laughed  a  little  sadly.  "Oh,"  she  answered, 
with  assumed  lightness,  "I — just  managed  it, 
that's  all." 

At  the  door  of  the  church  Madame  welcomed 
them  with  an  armful  of  white  roses  for  the 
bride.  She,  too,  had  a  new  gown  in  honour  of 
the  occasion,  and  her  sweet  old  face  was  radi 
ant  with  smiles.  "What  a  lovely  bride,"  she 
said,  as  she  kissed  Rosemary.  "Ch,  my 
dear!  You  mustn't,  truly!  No  tears  on  a 
wedding-day!" 

The  minister  was  waiting  at  the  altar. 
Madame  and  Aunt  Matilda  sat  down  to 
gether  in  a  front  pew;  there  was  a  moment's 
solemn  hush,  then  the  beautiful  service 
began. 

Sunlight  streamed  through  the  open  win 
dows,  carrying  the  colour  and  fragrance  of 
Autumn  into  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the 
church.  From  outside  came  the  cheery  piping 
of  a  robin  that  had  paused  upon  a  convenient 
window  sill  to  peep  in.  There  was  a  rush  of 
tiny,  furred  feet  through  the  drifted  leaves, 
and  a  gleam  of  scarlet  as  a  falling  maple  leaf 
floated  past  the  open  door.  In  the  sunlight 
the  taper  lights  on  the  altar  gleamed  like  great 
stars  suddenly  come  to  earth. 

"That  ye  may  so  live  together  in  this  life," 


H 


the  deep  voice  was  saying,  "and  in  the  life 
everlasting.  Amen!" 

After  the  benediction,  came  the  minister's 
perfunctory  congratulations.  When  he  called 
her  'Mrs.  Marsh,"  Rosemary  instinctively 
looked  toward  Madame,  then  laughed  and 
blushed  when  she  understood.  Madame  took 
the  girl  into  her  arms  as  she  came  down  from 
thealtar.  "Dear  daughter!"  she  said.  ''Truly 
my  daughter,  now!" 

Aunt  Matilda  and  Rosemary  hurried  back 
to  the  little  brown  house,  mindful  of  Alden's 
whispered  admonition :  "Don't  keep  me  waiting 
long,  dear — please. "  Neither  spoke  until  after 
Rosemary  had  changed  her  gown,  and  stood 
before  her  mirror  in  pale  lustrous  grey,  with 
hat  and  gloves  to  match. 

"I  '11  go  in  and  say  good-bye  to  Grand 
mother,"  Rosemary  said. 

"Wait  a  minute.     She  may  be  asleep." 

Aunt  Matilda  tiptoed  into  the  old  lady's 
room,  then  came  out  again,  with  her  finger  on 
her  lips.  "She's  sound  asleep,"  she  said, 
"and  her  face  looks  as  if  she  felt  better.  I 
guess  she  '11  come  to  herself  again  all  right. 
The  Starrs  have  always  been  healthy  and 
hard  to  kill." 

So  the  two  went  down-stairs  quietly.  When 
the  door  was  opened,  Rosemary  saw  that 
Alden  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  gate.  Smiling 
and  with  joy  thrilling  her  to  the  utmost  fibre 


372 


flDaster  of  tbe 


Unto  tbe 
IClovlD 


of  her  being,  Rosemary  kissed  Aunt  Matilda 
good-bye,  then  ran  out  to  where  her  bride 
groom  was  waiting,  to  lead  her  into  the  world 
of  service — and  of  love. 


THE    END 


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